The dream potion is coming along well. Nowhere near ready for marketing, and not the breakthrough I'd hoped in terms of countering the Cruciatus, but at least I feel as if I'm progressing. There are still avenues to explore, although I may have to consult Mr. Weasley more directly for several of them.

Greg Goyle stopped by yesterday. I wonder about the boy. Sometimes he seems to have a spark of something interesting and special, but then he drowns it in alcohol and potions. He's promised to stop, and to come to see me before he does anything else stupid, but who knows? The one thing that gives me hope is this school project of his. I think a large part of his problem is feeling like he has no purpose. Maybe if he can turn his hand to something useful, it will be the making of him. If not, then spending large blocks of time with small children will at least serve as a penance for his past idiocies.

Speaking of idiocy, every day that I don't contact the Weasley twin is a day that I don't make any progress towards my own current purpose in life. I don't even know which of the two is the one who survived. One was slightly more serious than the other, and concerned about the people around him; I hope it was this one. Given I never knew which name went with which twin - nor cared - it's possible.

"If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly." Hopefully it won't be my own assassination at the hands of rubber noses and puking pastilles that I'm bringing about.

It's the Patented Daydream Charm, from Weasleys Wizard Wheezes. And it's perfect as a base for my research - I'd be duplicating their efforts and thus wasting time if I don't use the basis of their charm as a building block.

Oh, Merlin, I have to ask a Weasley for help. And not just a Weasley, but one of those infernal twins, who couldn't wait to throw away their potential with both hands. God help me.

Young Draco was here today, and he inadvertently led me to the reason why my efforts at countering the Cruciatus have been having no appreciable results. It almost made up for his mirth at having suffered from inhaled potion fumes. Almost. Sometime in the near future, one of his potions will turn his hair bright pink. I'm not sure yet how I'll manage it, but the boy's always been so vain about his hair, it will be the perfect reminder that I am not to be mocked. After all, if I did something actually harmful, Narcissa would flay me alive.

But, I digress; such trivial amusements matter not. What matters is that the key to countering pain is not deadening the nerves, but displacing the thoughts of the sufferer. One can walk over hot coals if one's mind is in the correct state, and women from time immemorial have dealt with the pain of childbirth by thinking of something else - usually the vicious murder of the man who impregnated her, if my experiences are anything to judge by.

Actually, I think I remember reading that there has been a new potion used in child beds, something not originally marketed for the purpose. I'll have to glance through my journals to find it, as that might be a good starting point to work from. I hope to have a sort of vaccine arise from my research, a potion that remains dormant in the blood until something debilitating ly painful calls it to the surface, wherein it would dull the pain enough to allow the victim to continue functioning. It would pull the teeth of the Death Eaters and assorted villains running around if they were denied the Cruciatus, and other, more inventive ways of debilitating through pain.

I seem to have hit a block in my research. The most promising experiment turned me into someone totally different from my normal self, and while I'm steadily increasing the effectiveness of the potions I'm working on in easing or eradicating pain, it's not enough. Yes, selling the new formulations is profitable, and means that my salesgirl is kept busy - I should look into hiring another one, actually, since Daphne is terrible at working with customers and if I never have to deal with the public again, it will be too soon. Perhaps I should ask Miss Johnson whether she knows anyone suitable. The Gryffindors seem to be the best personality for sales, possessing both the gall to attempt to sell anything and the ability to act like they like anyone in their path. Except Slytherins, of course, but my students know enough to come to the back if they don't like the service up front.

That rather does hinge on being able to get Miss Johnson to talk to me. She seems to be cringing a lot, and mysteriously busy every time I look in her direction. I'm sure it's got to be exhausting, and I wonder how long she can keep it up.

Once again, it seems, my past reaches out to destroy me. While I can brew potions to keep my heart from getting worse, they won't be effective forever. I've had to study healing to a certain extent, so I know this, just as I know the likelihood that young Miss Weasley will find someone willing to treat me that I would quite literally trust with my life is vanishingly small. And yet, how long do I want to live? I'm not done with my work, and I refuse to be cheated of the full span that's due to me. If there is an afterlife, what chance is there it will be any better than this one? All that's certain is that it would last longer, and that Potter and Black are already there. No, this life is much preferable, however onerous it might seem on occasion.

Perhaps an American healer, who in the blessed insularness of their nation has never heard of Voldemort, or his war, or of me. Draco should be along shortly, given my parting comment to Miss Weasley, and he's been to America. Perhaps he can set the wheels in motion to find a proper healer. But then, he'd tell all of his little friends, and it would get back to his mother, and eventually end up being rejected for the cover of the Prophet for being too universally known to be news. Perhaps I'm better off simply concentrating on my research for now, and attending a conference in America in order to make contacts. Merlin knows they hold enough of them.

Severus woke up to the feel of a ray of sunshine breaking through the tiny, high window in his bedroom. He felt a pang of regret for having sold the cottage at Spinner's End, but he really couldn't afford to keep his capital tied up in two properties, and the cottage had never felt much like a home. He was more comfortable underground after all those years in the Hogwarts dungeons, and this little warren of rooms under the shop was perfectly suited to a bachelor of his years and needs. The last of the legalities being settled, he'd moved in, and now he knew he had to find a way of covering that window. It was all going to turn out all right.

Except that he sounded like a Hufflepuff. Could those girls he'd hired have been slipping something into his food? He'd never had such juvenile thoughts even as a child. Thank Merlin he hadn't actually devolved to saying that sort of thing out loud.

He made his breakfast, checking each item carefully to make sure it hadn't been tampered with. There was a faint smell of... something, but he couldn't quite tell what it was or where it was coming from. It was on his food, but also on his clothes and in his hair. It wasn't unpleasant; if nothing else, he could sell it as an air freshener.

There he went again! Looking on the bright side was not part of his character, but now that he'd noticed it once, it was pervasive, and deeply disturbing. If he didn't find out what was causing it soon, it'd become second nature. The thought that he might end up not minding his own cheeriness filled him with horror.

Breakfast done, dishes tidied away, showered, and wearing fresh robes, Severus mentally reviewed his agenda for the day. While his schedule was no longer as regimented as he was during his teaching tenure, he still liked order in his life; hence why he'd taken on employees to deal with what customers appeared, bringing disorder by their very nature. First he'd check on his employees, and perhaps do a brief scan to check whether the scamps (bitches, he corrected himself mentally) had done this to him. Then out to find a competent barber, lunch at the place where they served a delicious pate, and finally back to his workshop in order to check in on the batch of anti-Cruciatus potion which had been simmering for about two and a half of the required three months.

These plans were being put into effect when he noticed the smell was stronger near his storeroom. As he stepped in to investigate, the smell grew stronger, to the point where the smell of melon and vanilla grew cloying, with the beginnings of decay creeping in. “At least I know what doesn't work!”

That was the worst one yet, and Severus struggled desperately to hold on to his horror. The smell was centered around the steeping potion, and the effects were very like a combination of cheering charms and wit-dulling potions. Covering his face with one sleeve to dull the fumes he was forced to breathe in, he bottled a small portion of the potion and banished the rest into the stasis room. He didn't dare throw it out before determining its potential usefulness, but he also didn't dare keep it simmering until he could improve the ventilation and prevent any further potions fumes from seeping into his living quarters.

“Looped out on happy fumes,” he snarled, “and not one of those idiots noticed or cared about the change.” Feeling a bit more like himself, Severus used his wand to clean the air and the outside of the potion bottle, and pondered whether he should go see the Weasley girl to get checked out for any lingering effects.

The former students I have hired have begun to sing while working. Once again, I am confronted with the fact that I should have hired someone mute. They are out to lunch, currently, and I am afforded a few scant moments of quiet.

Maria LeGrot, department head of the MLE, visited today. She insinuated that a new Dark Lord is rising. Though I have heard the whispers and felt the darkness in the air, I have no information for the woman. More than that, I am not sure I exactly trust her. It is apparant, however, that she believes something is happening. If she is seeking me out for information, there can only be shadows on the horizon.

The employees are back. My solitude is gone.

Several resumes have been received and looked over. Most of them are irrelevant, as they have little to no potions ability. Surprisingly, previous students seem to make up the bulk of those applied.

Daphne Greengrass, one of mine, has applied. Her resume is spotty, as the girl is herself, but she can brew, which I suppose is adding to her favor. We will see if she'd adequate or inept.

After avoiding the inevitable for as long as possible, I am forced to accept that I am unable to run Hyacinth, as well as serve the public at the front counter. I would rather not deal with the general populace, so it has come down to hiring another to run the face of the shoppe while I am left to brew.

I hold no hope for qualified resumes.