Keep me as the apple of your eye;
hide me in the shadow of your wings
from the wicked who despoil me.
My ravenous enemies press upon me;
they close their hearts,
they fill their mouths with proud roaring.
Their steps even now encircle me;
they watch closely, keeping low to the ground,
Like lions eager for prey,
like a young lion lurking in ambush.
Rise, O LORD, confront and cast them down;
rescue my soul from the wicked.
Slay them with your sword;
with your hand, LORD, slay them…
Psalms 17:8-14
Hermione stared blankly at the ceiling of the Gryffindor girls' dormitory. The pitch blackness of the night seemed to swallow her thoughts quickly as they flowed forth from her mind, swirling with guilt and shame.
You stupid, stupid witch! Confounding McLaggen didn't make him worse, nor Ron better. All it did was cheat. You're a cheater, Hermione. A terrible, awful cheater.
With a huff loud enough that she worried it would wake the other girls, Hermione flopped over, taking her duvet with her and yanking it over her head. Her breath came heavy and quick, anxiety rippling through her veins as she recalled the outrage upon McLaggen's face. Sure, Cormac McLaggen was an almighty boor, one who would contribute little to the general morale of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. And, sure, Ron Weasley was Hermione's very good friend, and she wished little more than to see him succeed.
But you cheated, Hermione, and you know it.
Then, of course, there had been the visit to Hagrid's hut, where Hermione and Harry and Ron had had to explain their way out of dropping Care of Magical Creatures. They'd hurt Hagrid's feelings immensely by doing so. That much was obvious. By the end of the visit, Hagrid was more himself, even though his giant spider-friend Aragog was on the verge of spider-death. Still, the hurt Hermione had imposed on the overlarge caretaker was still eating at her hours later.
She sighed again, loudly, and thrashed about to the other side of her bed, punching a bit at her pillow in a futile struggle to get comfortable.
"Hermione?"
She froze, chewing upon her lip. Fresh guilt washed over her like a cold bucket of water as she realized that all of her tossing and turning had woken at least one of her fellow female Gryffindors.
"Are you quite all right, Hermione?" Lavender Brown sounded more than slightly irritated, her drowsy voice tight in the dark dormitory.
"Yes. I'm fine. Sorry. I'll be quiet." Hermione rolled onto her back and stared again at the ceiling, yanking the duvet up about her shoulders and digging her teeth into her bottom lip. She promised herself she would never cheat again, not at Quidditch or school or any other such thing, and that she would never hurt the feelings of anyone around her.
Then she realized that in times like these, such promises were ridiculous and impossible, and resigned herself to reality. Her eyes burned a bit as she shut them, refusing to open them until the sun came up. At some point, she must have fallen asleep, for her racing guilty thoughts eventually gave way to racing guilty dreams. But an hour later or so, her eyes flew open again.
Severus Snape stared blankly into the fire in his quarters, drumming his fingertips upon the arm of his wingback chair. The crackling of the wood as it was consumed by the flames seemed to taunt him just as cruelly as the Marauders had decades before. Or, more recently, as cruelly as had his fourth-year Gryffindors the previous day.
Come off it, Severus. They're bloody teenagers. Pimple-faced, gormless idiots with fewer brains than a pygmy puff.
Then again, they had acted no differently than Severus had ever expected any Gryffindor to act - smug, arrogant, and rude. He had been teaching, or attempting to teach, the fourth-years the most fundamental concepts of wordless duelling. Instead of heeding his warnings that such skills might become useful in a practical capacity sooner rather than later, the cocky Gryffindors had used the opportunity to engage in reckless behavior.
Childish hexes had flown throughout the classroom. Some students had deliberately neglected to block the hexes from their friends, allowing themselves to wind up with jelly-legs or steaming ears and finding the whole bit quite hilarious. Others had cast ridiculously dangerous spells wordlessly at their Slytherin opponents, who were sometimes unable to block them. The lesson had ended with a fourth-year Slytherin on the ground, his nose magically enlarged and bleeding like a sieve, while his Gryffindor sparring partner found herself completely bald and sobbing.
Severus had sneered in disgust and flicked his wand at the both of them, muttering counter-curses to reverse the unsightly damage the students had done to one another.
"All of you," he said, looking about the room with narrowed eyes, "get out of my sight."
"But, Professor Snape, sir," one fool of a Gryffindor had piped up with too much of a smirk, "the lesson isn't over for another twenty minutes."
Severus was hovering over the boy in a flash, glaring down with a searing anger blazing through his chest. "Mr. Davies," he articulated, each syllable clicking off his tongue like a spark, "our lesson is over now. Get out. All of you."
The incident had injected Severus with a throbbing pang of doubt. Perhaps he had been wrong, all these many years, to pine after the Defence against the Dark Arts position, after all. Of course, Dumbledore had always been wisely reticent to place Severus in the position. Dumbledore (and many others) were well aware that Severus was very intimately acquainted with the Dark Arts themselves. Severus had always tried to use this point to his advantage. He had tried telling Dumbledore that his working knowledge of the Dark Arts would allow him the ability to give students a more effective insight into blocking hexes, guarding their minds, identifying toxic potions.
Knowing the enemy.
Still, Dumbledore had persisted in keeping Severus locked away in the dungeons, hiring buffoons like Gilderoy Lockhart and Remus Lupin - fucking Remus Lupin, one of Severus' own school bullies, as Dumbledore full well knew. It had seemed for years to Severus as though Dumbledore's persistence about the teaching assignments was one way of keeping Severus in his place, of reminding him that they were all doing Severus a great favor by allowing him a place at Hogwarts at all.
And now, finally, Severus had the chance to teach where he wanted, what he wanted… but the idiot children were bungling it for him. Worst of all was Potter. Just today, Severus had been forced to waste part of his Saturday on the boy's detention because Potter had tried to hex him. Fucking Potter. The boy was precisely 99% James and 1% Lily. Only his eyes were Lily. The rest of him, every scrap of skin and hair and certainly every ounce of his personality, were James, James, James.
Severus stared into the fire again and pulled his cut crystal tumbler of Blishen's Firewhisky up to his lips. He thought about taking a deep draught, about getting completely drunk tonight, but he didn't. He never did. He wasn't that he didn't like the burn of the firewhisky as it scorched its way into his chest. He did. He liked it very much. It wasn't that he didn't like the swimming feeling in his head after a half-filled tumbler of the stuff. He did. He liked that quite a bit, too. More than anything, he liked that the firewhisky made him think that he was the best professor that Hogwarts had ever seen.
But what he did not like was that it made him feel a bit out of control of himself. He'd never liked that at all about alcohol, even when he'd been freshly seventeen and newly permitted to drink the stuff. He remembered the night of Lily's seventeenth birthday, when she had drunk like a fish, and she'd lost control of herself entirely. The next day, she'd let it slip to Severus that James Potter had taken something from her that she could never get back, and Severus had decided there and then that firewhisky was something that should be taken like a very dangerous potion… little sips, and only a couple of them. The damage it could wreak was… immense.
So Severus sipped his Blishen's Firewhisky slowly, carefully. After another half hour, he'd only taken the amber liquid down a half inch in the tumbler. He held it up before his eyes and pulled the bit in his mouth back and forth through his crooked teeth, feeling the smooth liquor heat up as it seeped about. Finally, he swallowed, and the stuff coursed down his throat with a biting, stinging heat that was at once torture and thrill.
Then, suddenly, the crystal tumbler was falling, released with a jolt from Severus' slender fingers. The blistering fire in his throat was abruptly nothing compared to the pain upon his left forearm. As he clutched at his sleeve and clenched his eyes shut, hissing in agony, Severus registered the sound of the whisky tumbler shattering upon the wooden floor.
That's the expensive Blishen's wasted, then, he thought, somehow, pulling himself to his feet. No matter. He wouldn't need the Blishen's where he was going. There would be plenty of refreshments at Malfoy Manor.
"Lumos!"
The Grand Staircase had become as dark as coal as Hermione descended. Why did the teachers of this school insist upon keeping the entire place so inky black at night, Hermione wondered? It did not seem safe, even if it was ostensibly against the rules for students to be out and about at this hour. Besides, she thought as a shiver fluttered through her, it made her uneasy. And, was this place not supposed to feel like home?
Thankfully, nearly all the myriad portraits were sleeping. Hermione was more than grateful for this, for her own stomach rumbled in such a boisterous fashion that it echoed the portraits' snoring.
Nearly there. One storey more to the Great Hall, then on to the kitchens. The house-elves won't hate you so much that they won't spare you a bit of bread and cheese, Hermione.
She supposed she could have simply Transfigured something in her dormitory into a snack, but there was something drawing her out of her room at two in the morning. The rules had hardly stopped her the past six years; why should they keep her in Gryffindor Tower now, when her insomnia and late-night hunger combined to make the kitchens so appealing?
Hermione was making her way down the Grand Staircase when one of the paintings suddenly hissed at her,
"Hello, there!"
Hermione jumped, gasping in horror at being addressed in such a ghostly manner. Her wand clattered to the ground, taking the white ball of light at its tip with it, and Hermione clamored to reach for it. She pulled her fuzzy scarlet robe more tightly around herself and snuggled her feet more firmly into her slippers. Feeling quite frazzled indeed, Hermione tucked her wild hair behind her ears and took a shivering breath, turning toward the portrait who had addressed her.
"Oh. Hello, Damara."
Hermione whispered as softly as possible at the ancient witch, perpetually tired and hungry, who resided in a series of portraits throughout the castle and had recently seemed to have developed quite the crush on Sir Cadogan. Hermione was quite surprised to see Damara Dodderidge awake at this hour; as far as Hermione knew, Damara slept whenever possible.
"Where are you off to at this time of night?" Damara asked, a wicked glint in her grin as she winked at Hermione.
Feeling a flush creep up her neck as she scrambled for an answer, Hermione settled upon the truth. "I… I couldn't sleep. I was just going to fetch a snack."
"Oh." Damara nodded. "I had thought perhaps you were off to see a lad. That would be a much juicier tale, wouldn't it? But, then, a snack sounds nice, too. If perchance he is awake, might you ask Giffard Abbott to bring me a snack, as well? Not too much, just perhaps a bit of cake and some chestnuts or brussels sprouts… some bacon and lamb, and a nice mug of mead. I'm quite hungry. Just a snack. Don't trouble him too much."
Hermione flashed Damara a crooked little smile and nodded, turning to leave. "Of course, Damara. Good night."
As she started to walk away, Hermione heard the portrait again behind her.
"Miss Granger?"
Hermione glanced over her shoulder impatiently, wanting very much to simply get on to the kitchens.
"You'll want to be careful, dear. You're not the only one about tonight."
Hermione felt her eyebrows crumple a bit at that. Damara had a portrait in the clock tower, as well. Was there someone out there? She kept her wand ahead of her and nodded solemnly at Damara, muttering her thanks before continuing down the Grand Staircase.
Now feeling considerably more paranoid than she had done before, Hermione reached the bottom of the Grand Staircase and padded as silently as she could into the Entrance Hall. There were a few sconces upon the stone walls here that apparently stayed lit all through the night, giving Hermione some small comfort that the professors cared gave a modicum of care to whether or not the castle seemed dead at night. Then she remembered that the castle had its own magic and probably decided for itself which corridors were lit at night.
"Nox," Hermione muttered, lamenting the fact that she had to traverse such an open part of the castle in order to get to the kitchens. What if one of the professors was patrolling the corridors for safety? Even as a prefect, there was no legitimate reason she could give for being out so late.
The repercussions of this fact were all the more evident, and seemed all the more grave, as Hermione approached the four House point hourglasses. She paused in front of them, staring at each one in the dim light of the sconces. The Ravenclaw sapphires were hardly visible at all in the darkness, their blue appearing almost black, but Hermione knew that they were currently leading in House points. Slytherin was next, she knew, with a hefty pile of emeralds sitting at the bottom of their hourglass. A humble but nonzero amount of diamonds had dribbled through to the base of the Hufflepuff hourglass since the start of term. As for Gryffindor? Well, it was as Professor Snape had told Harry. If it were possible, Gryffindor would have started the term with negative points. As it were, every single ruby was at the top of the hourglass. Gryffindor was in dead last place with little hope of catching up any time soon. The other three houses would have to engage in a full-scale riot, with all the Gryffindors cleaning up the damage, in order for the House points orders to significantly change.
Sighing wistfully, Hermione realized that if she were to get caught tonight, she would only worsen the situation. She turned to continue on to the kitchens, but as she walked, she noticed the distinct sound of footsteps… and they were not her own.
Panicked bile rose in Hermione's throat as she looked quickly around for somewhere to hide. There were no inlets, no hollows, in this corridor. In desperation, Hermione reached for the door of the Great Hall, but found it locked.
"Alohomora!" she whispered, pointing her wand at the iron handle of the door, and though she heard it click, she realized with a sinking feeling that the door would make an enormous racket opening. She had no time for this. The quick, clicking footsteps were getting close. Too close.
Hermione whirled around, her back to the thick doors of the Great Hall, and cast a hasty Disillusionment Charm upon herself. She did not focus hard enough upon it, she thought, and she worried that the level of camouflage would be imperfect. She might looked rippled, like a heat reflection against the door. She only hoped that the light would be dim enough, and the owner of the approaching footsteps distracted enough, that she would go unnoticed.
Of course, she had not counted upon the owner of those footsteps being Severus Snape.
Hermione tried to keep herself from gasping aloud as Snape rounded the corner, his dragon hide boots clacking noisily upon the stone floor as he whisked down the corridor with his robes billowing majestically behind him.
Snape? Hermione was baffled. She was perfectly accustomed to him making rounds at night, but not looking like this. He had a traveling cloak on, and his stringy black hair looked as though he'd been out in the rain. Even in the bluish light of his wand, Hermione could see the coral glow of windblown cheeks. He had clearly just come from outside.
What were you up to, then, Professor Snape?
Hermione felt her eyes narrow as she tried to slow her breathing, to silence her heart beat, to flatten herself against the door. But it was no use. As Snape approached the doors of the Great Hall, his rapid footsteps slowed and then stopped. He stayed where he was for a long moment, and then his the light from his wand was silently extinguished.
Hermione felt her heart begin to race. He knew. He knew she was here. How did this man know everything? Abruptly filled with rage, and, oddly, jealousy for his abilities, Hermione pressed herself more firmly into the doors of the Great Hall. She tried to melt into the doors, shutting her eyes and willing herself to become fibers of the wood to escape Snape's miraculous powers of detection.
When she opened her eyes again, he was there, perhaps two feet in front of her, his wand pointed straight at her chest. He was looking at her, but not at her eyes. He knew she was there, but she was invisible. He could have used a simple Homenum Revelio charm, Hermione knew, but Snape was toying with her… with whomever it was that was hiding from him. He liked to torment his students, and he was going to get his due tonight. She could see it in his angry scowl.
Damn him!
Hermione gulped, and the very small act must have made a tiny sound, for the second she swallowed, Snape squared his jaw and pressed his wand forward an inch. The tip of his wand touched Hermione's throat, and then a wicked gleam came across Snape's black eyes.
"Finite incantatem."
Hermione felt nothing, but knew that her Disillusionment Charm must have been lifted, because all of a sudden Snape's black eyes were upon hers, and she knew he could see her just fine. He took a minute step back, for he was awfully close at this point. He ground his teeth together and frowned deeply, lowering his wand.
"Well, Miss Granger, I can't say I'm terribly surprised to see you, of all people, wandering the castle at this hour. Have you some excuse or explanation you care to offer me?"
"Sir?"
Hermione was not expecting the chance to explain herself. She was expecting the immediate assignment of disciplinary action, along with a barking demand that she return immediately to Gryffindor Tower. But a request for an explanation? She found herself with her mouth agape.
"Close your mouth, Miss Granger. You look like a cod fish."
Hermione clapped her jaw shut and scowled, her cheeks burning scarlet with embarrassment. She huffed and blinked a few times, trying to center her thoughts enough to formulate an answer to Snape's original question. She looked up at him, at his hair, still dripping with rain, and wanted very much to ask him where he had been. Instead, she offered timidly,
"I was going to the kitchens, sir."
"The kitchens?" Professor Snape cocked a thick eyebrow at Hermione, looking terribly amused. Hermione nodded nervously, and Snape chuckled in a deep voice, sending a shiver of terror through Hermione's veins. She had never heard him laugh, and it was not exactly a pleasant sound. "Were you going there to foment revolution?"
Ah, a jab at her S.P.E.W. fiasco. That was clever. Once again, Hermione found herself scowling at him. Then, realizing she probably looked awfully impudent, she stared at the ground and shook her head. "No, sir. I was… hungry."
"Hm. Indeed. Do you find the Hogwarts meal schedule insufficient to meet the needs of your appetite?"
He was goading her now, and Hermione felt her entire body flushing hot with a mixture of anger and humiliation. "No, sir." The words were squeezed through gritted teeth. "I found myself quite unable to sleep this evening. As a result of my insomnia, I was uncharacteristically hungry."
"And you are unable to Transfigure yourself a snack?"
Hermione could not help but let out a very angry puff of air at that, raising her eyes up to Snape's. She stared at him for a very long time, and only then realized that he looked far more tired than she was accustomed to seeing him. Not that she was used to being this close to her most antagonistic professor, but she'd seen his face enough over the past six years to know that his appearance tonight was out of the ordinary. The dark circles beneath his eyes were more akin to bruises than anything else, and the way his wet hair hung in his face made him look travel-weary and drained. She had not realized how long she had been staring until Professor Snape uttered snappily,
"Have you lost the use of your verbal faculties, Miss Granger?"
Hermione gulped heavily and shut her eyes. She sighed a bit and asked softly, "Please, Professor… I'm very sorry for being out of bed so late. I know I've broken the rules. I shall go back at once. Just let me know what my punishment is."
"There is none. Go back to Gryffindor Tower."
He turned away and started to walk off, and Hermione felt a surge of confusion echo in her brain. Before she could tell herself to thank Merlin for her good fortune, and for Snape's apparent loss of sanity, she blurted out,
"What do you mean, there isn't any punishment?"
Professor Snape whirled over the shoulder of his travelling cloak and glared at her, pinching his lips tightly.
"Are you asking me to take House points from Gryffindor, Miss Granger?" he scoffed. He gestured behind Hermione to the large House points hourglasses. "You will note, my dear, that there are simply no Gryffindor House points to take. Therefore, that is not an option for me, much as you deserve to have dozens and dozens of them taken for wandering about the castle in your lingerie at two in the morning."
Hermione felt her eyes go wide and round as saucers at his ludicrous words, clutching her fluffy red robe more tightly around herself with her slim fingers. She thought she was very modestly dressed, quite covered and wearing pajamas, not lingerie. She glared indignantly at Professor Snape, but he continued relentlessly,
"The other conventional disciplinary option, which is detention, is out of the question because I find myself overly occupied with them as of late. Ruddy fourth-years have eaten up my next six Sundays with them, and just today your very good friend Potter attempted to ingratiate himself by scraping flobberworm mucus off my desks. I have no desire to spend the entirety of my tenure supervising detentions. Besides which, they are intended to be not only punitive, but preventative. And you, Miss Granger… well… after six long years of you persistently breaking the rules, I hardly think a detention will keep you properly in line."
Hermione found herself standing once again with her mouth open in shock, her arms crossed angrily over her chest. She had no idea why she was offended that Professor Snape would not assign her detention. She ought to be very grateful. But she wasn't. She was offended.
"Once again, Miss Granger, you ought to close your mouth. It is unbecoming to stand about wearing your righteous indignation so plainly." Professor Snape threaded his long, thin fingers through his wet hair, pushing the stringy strands back. They immediately fell forward again, planting themselves in front of the obsidian orbs that bored so deeply through Hermione.
"So… I shall just go straight back to Gryffindor Tower, then," Hermione whispered, and she shoved her wand into her robe pocket as a sign of submission to the intimidating man. Snape nodded briskly.
"Don't ever let me catch you out in the castle again at this hour, Miss Granger," he commanded, his voice somewhere between a growl and a sneer. "I know you think the rules do not apply to you. But even for a Prefect, it is strictly forbidden to be out and about at this hour."
Hermione nodded her assent and padded quickly past him, and then from behind her, she heard him mutter, "Besides which, it isn't safe."
Hermione's steps faltered just a touch at those words, but she did not turn around. She sank her top teeth into her bottom lip and nodded once more.
"Thank you, Professor."
As she wordlessly settled herself back into her bed in the girls' dormitory, she listened to the blustering wind and the pounding rain outside the leaded glass window and thought back to the sight of Professor Snape's rain-soaked hair, his windblown cheeks. He'd been wearing a traveling cloak; his steps had been brisk and purposeful. He had seemed agitated, irritated even. Where had he been? What had he been doing?
Hermione stared blankly at the ceiling in the darkness, wondering and wondering, not wanting to accept the few dreadful possibilities that crept into her consciousness.
Severus threw open the door to his chambers and stared at the shards of glass where his tumbler of Blishen's Firewhisky had shattered hours before. With an exasperated sigh, Severus flicked his wand at the mess and Vanished it. He glanced into the stone hearth where the remains of his earlier fire were now a smoldering pile of ash and charcoal.
"Incendio." Severus mumbled the incantation, and the flames in the hearth were rekindled into a glowing warmth and light that filled his room.
He was exhausted after this latest summoning by the Dark Lord, but at least this time there had been no torture, of him or of anyone else. It had merely been a meeting of several less-than-upstanding individuals, discussing matters of trivial importance. Severus had been unnerved at the way Nagini had slithered around the legs of his chair, to the point that he'd missed a question the Dark Lord had asked him, but he'd recovered adequately. Severus had spoon-fed information (truth and lies) to the Dark witches and wizards present, and he had acquired new facts to report to Dumbledore. But those would have to wait until morning, for Severus was far too depleted tonight, simply from being in the presence of Lord Voldemort.
Then, naturally, a Gryffindor had made his night all the better. Why couldn't he have simply strode through the castle back to his dungeon quarters and flopped into bed as he always did after these meetings? They were tiring enough without sensing the invisible presence of a student breaking curfew.
Severus had known it was Hermione Granger before he'd undone her Disillusionment Charm. He liked to think of himself as a fairly observant wizard, and when he had perceived the presence of another human in front of the Great Hall, he had activated every sense he possessed in order to identify them.
He had listened, hard, and could hear a faint breathing sound. Whoever it was, they were nervous to see him, breathing quickly through their nose. Granger did that, often. Whenever Severus towered over her in Potions or Defence Against the Dark Arts, Hermione Granger was wont to breathe quickly through her nose in frustrated embarrassment. She was also extremely likely, or at least as likely as anyone else, to be out of bed at two in the morning. One mark against Granger, then.
Severus had breathed in, deeply, and inhaled the complex aroma of the corridor. There was the damp smell of the stone in the rainy night, but that was to be expected. The musty smell of the wooden doors - yes, always there. His own cloaks and the smell of his wet hair… hardly appealing, but identifiable as his own scent.
Then, a strangely sunny aroma cut through the darkness. Grapefruit, vanilla… a girl, or a woman. Severus turned to the origin of the smell and stalked toward it, continuing to breathe calmly through his prominent nose as he did. The fresh perfume grew stronger as he neared the doors of the Great Hall. Most definitely feminine - so it wasn't Potter, then.
The heat he could feel - the bodily warmth of another human being - only radiated up to a certain height. The other person was short, and pressing themselves against the door. Severus pulled his wand and terminated the Disillusionment Charm he could sense, and then there she was.
Hermione Granger. No surprise.
He had explained to her that she would not be punished. Ideally, yes, he woul
d have taken House points from her, for it was dangerous and foolish and Gryffindor arrogance at its finest for her to be wandering the castle alone in the middle of the night. But he could have easily given her detentions. The truth was that he did not feel inclined to punish the girl after the meeting he had just sat through.
The Dark Lord and his minions had discussed their long-term plans for Muggle-borns, both at Hogwarts and in wizarding society at large, after the planned overthrow of the Ministry of Magic. Life for Muggle-borns would not be pleasant, even if they attempted to escape wizarding society, even if they snapped their wands and tried to live as Muggles. To the Dark Lord and the Death Eaters, 'Mudbloods' were lower than Muggles. They were magic-thieves, imposters, pretenders.
Hermione Granger was Muggle-born, and so seeing her pressed against the doors of the Great Hall with embarrassment, disappointment, and fear in her eyes made Severus Snape particularly disinclined toward any sort of reprimand. He could have assigned long essays for her, though that might have been seen as a reward for Hermione Granger. He could have forced her to spend her Saturdays making charitable potions for patients at St. Mungo's, but, again, that was hardly a punishment for the studious girl.
It really didn't matter, anyway, Severus thought as he had glanced up at the stupid, meaningless House points hourglasses. All of this, the detentions and the points and the school curfews, would seem childish and idealistic and innocent a year from now.
A tempest was rushing toward them all, one far more fierce than what blew now outside the castle.
The only thing that concerned Severus was the look in Hermione Granger's light brown eyes as she had searched his black ones. She had look curious - too curious. She had been wondering where he had come from that night, and she did not trust him. Severus sighed deeply as he glanced again into his fireplace and peeled his rain-soaked cloaks from his wiry frame. Hermione Granger was a prying, meddling little creature, and if she was not more careful, her curiosity would have grave consequences for her. Severus burrowed himself beneath his duvet and resolved to speak with Albus Dumbledore about it all in the morning… for the felonious little girl's sake… after a few hours' rest.
"Sugared butterfly wing?"
Albus Dumbledore popped open the flowery antique tin of sickly sweet insect wings, nearly a hundred years old with many centuries to go before expiration, and extracted a handful. He held a few out in offering to Severus, who shook his head impatiently.
"No, thank you, Albus. As I said, I must be brief. I've a slew of fourth-years with detention today -"
"On a Sunday, Severus?" Dumbledore cocked an eyebrow skeptically.
Severus felt his cheeks color. "If you'd been in lessons with them last week, you'd have them all in there today, as well."
Dumbledore shrugged and tossed the sugared butterfly wings into his own mouth, chewing them thoughtfully. "What transpired last night at Malfoy Manor, then, my boy?"
Severus despised when he was addressed that way by Dumbledore. He had not been a student at Hogwarts for over twenty years; he'd been teaching here for very nearly that length of time. He was no more a 'boy' than Dumbledore himself, and he knew that the elder wizard only used the term to be deliberately condescending. Severus let out a low hiss through his teeth and tempered his tone as he said quietly,
"The Death Eaters and the Dark Lord were discussing… plans… for Muggle-Borns. These plans are, of course, under the assumption that their side is to ultimately emerge triumphant. They were policies, really, for a new Ministry, a new administration at Hogwarts, et cetera."
He waved his hand dismissively, as if a casual brush-off of the meeting could exorcise the terrible things that had been said there. But Dumbledore pressed,
"And what were these policies, exactly?"
Severus sighed again. He sank into the chair opposite Dumbledore's and pulled his fingers up the bridge of his nose, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee. Thinking about all this again made him tired. It all made him very tired.
"The plan is a gradual but steady dissolution of the rights of Muggle-borns. First, expulsion of all Muggle-born students from Hogwarts, concurrent with the termination of all Muggle-born Ministry employees and the closure of Muggle-born businesses. Registration of all Muggle-borns in Britain. Following that, confiscation of wands and all other magical artifacts from Muggle-borns. Prohibition of the practice of magic among Muggle-borns. Magical sterilization. Forced servitude to half-bloods and purebloods, and then eventually slavery. Extermination of any who prove themselves useless. Culling of Muggle-born magical children upon discovery of existence."
His breath shook heavily as he clenched his eyes shut more tightly and pinched the bridge of his nose harder. Dumbledore said nothing to him at all, and Severus spoke again.
"Things like this have happened before in the Muggle world, Albus. Exterminations and genocides and 'cleansings.' These horrors are not mere speculation. There are historical precedents for such inhumanity."
He cracked open his black eyes and saw that Dumbledore was staring at a white quill with great sadness in his ancient eyes, coursing his fingernail gently over the feathers. The old wizard pursed his lips and sucked in air slowly, and then he finally said,
"Harry must not fail, Severus, and therefore neither must you."
"I know."
There was a great long silence, during which Severus felt the Headmaster's Office grow heavy with grief and worry, and when he could stand it no longer, he cleared his throat.
"Upon my return last night, or, rather, quite early this morning, I discovered Miss Granger breaking curfew in the corridor outside the Great Hall. She had Disillusioned herself to avoid getting caught, but I knew she was there."
Dumbledore nodded solemnly. "Miss Granger, rather like her compatriots, is ill-suited for following the rules."
Severus scowled at the headmaster. Was Dumbledore excusing Hermione Granger from being out and about by stating that the girl simply was not created to be obedient? Preposterous!
"Headmaster," Severus said tightly, pronouncing his words carefully through his teeth, "I found her willfully hiding herself from a teacher, clad in a dressing gown and slippers, with a very poor excuse as to why she was alone in the corridors at two o'clock."
"What was her excuse?" Dumbledore's pale eyes glinted in mockery, and Severus felt a flush of rage creep up his neck. He sneered.
"She was going to the kitchens for a snack."
"Well, Miss Granger is quite lean. Perhaps a snack or two would do her well." Dumbledore smiled warmly. "Is there anything else, Severus."
"Albus!" Severus nearly growled as he flew to his feet. "She was disobeying the rules."
"Very well, then." Dumbledore slowly stood, his aged knees cracking audibly as he rose. "I'm quite certain you assigned her plenty of detentions for her infractions, along with several lengthy punitive essays, and I'm sure you took points from Gryffindor. Good day, Severus."
"You know full well that Gryffindor has no points to take!" Severus found himself getting flustered for a reason he could not well explain. His hand flew up to his slick onyx hair and whisked it off his face, but it promptly fell forward again. "And, were I to assign Miss Granger any essays as punishment, she would have squealed at me in glee. That is not punishment for her. It is an honor and a privilege for that girl to write essays. Any task I could set for her in a detention would be less pleasant for me than for her, now that I'm teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts. 'Miss Granger, today you will spend eight hours correcting first-year exams. Miss Granger, your task for detention today is to polish candelabras, to put my personal potions stores into alphabetical order, and to write a hundred lines about how sorry you are for your transgression.' Yes, Albus, I'm sure that would be a very effective punishment for Miss Granger."
Severus had not realized throughout his ranting that he had begun pacing throughout Dumbledore's office, meandering in slow circles in front of the Headmaster's desk while gesticulating fervently with his hands and snarling his words with angry, huffing breaths.
"You know, a year or so ago, I still found myself vehemently wondering why it was that Miss Granger was not sorted into Ravenclaw. But now, Albus, now I know full well why it is that the girl is a Gryffindor. She is nosy, and she is meddlesome. She has no regard whatsoever for the rules. It does me little good to return from a meeting at Malfoy Manor and stumble upon the brains of the Golden Trio, doing a very poor job of hiding herself while she stalks about the castle like a damned cat in the night. Then she had the gall, the brazen cheek, to look at me with suspicion, as though I had been somewhere I should not have been!"
"Well, Severus, you were somewhere you should not have been, at least according to her. I'm sure she suspected…"
Severus whirled on Dumbledore, feeling the black fire shoot forth from his glare as he spat at the old man, "I was precisely where I was told to be, by both you and by Him."
That shut Dumbledore up for a long moment, and the elder wizard's pale eyes softened considerably. Dumbledore folded his hands in front of his sapphire robes and sighed heavily. "Of course you were, Severus. I know, and you know, that you were hardly sneaking about. But think of how it must have seemed to Miss Granger. You and I know why you did not give her detention. It was because you looked as suspicious to her as she did to you."
"No." Severus shook his head, realizing that although Dumbledore's words made perfect sense, and though that would have been a valid reason to decline punishing Hermione Granger, it was not the truth. "It is because… It is because she is Muggle-born."
"Ah." Dumbledore smiled serenely and nodded simply. There was another long pause during which nothing was said, and much was understood.
Hermione Granger was Muggle-born, as had been Lily Evans. Dumbledore knew well that Severus' greatest regret in his life had been the moment he called Lily a 'Mudblood,' after which she detached completely from him and his life began to crumble. In the immediate aftermath of a Death Eater meeting that explicitly called for the extermination of every Muggle-born in Britain, how could Severus Snape rain down his own wrath upon the first Muggle-born he saw?
Even if she was a nosy, meddlesome Gryffindor, with poufy hair and over-enunciated, haughty speech. Even then.
"Oh, come on, 'Mione! I can teach you to fly properly!"
"No, Ronald!" Hermione shoved Ron's shoulder as they entered the Great Hall for lunch, curling her lips into a wicked smile. The two had been debating whether or not Hermione would need proper broom flying skills to be successful in life after leaving Hogwarts. Hermione had insisted that alternative transportation methods, like Apparition, Floo, and Portkeys, would be more than sufficient and that her substandard flying skills would not matter. Ron had contended that there was nothing quite like the rush of wind through your hair as you sailed skillfully upon a broom.
The two took their places at the Gryffindor table, where Harry was already seated. He was reading through the Potions textbook he had so auspiciously selected on the first day of class, and Hermione felt her jaw clench in frustration, though she opted not to say anything to him about it. Ron sat beside Harry and Hermione plopped down opposite the boys, yanking an apple from the silver bowl of fruit in the middle of the table. She sank her teeth into the skin of the apple and began munching ungracefully upon it.
"Ronald," she said as she chewed, swiping the back of her hand across her lips and swallowing heavily, "broom travel was only invented in order to circumlocute the detection of Muggles. Quidditch was born of this need and is now, really, the only useful application for brooms. It's like polo ponies in Muggle life…"
"All right, all right!" Ron held up his hands in defeat, a horrified look spreading across his freckled countenance as he realized he might be in for a veritable lecture. "I won't teach you how to fly. It's fine. You can Floo and Apparate and Portkey all you like, and I'll play Quidditch, all right?"
Hermione grinned and took another bite of apple, smirking at Harry as he closed his Potions book and slipped it into his bag. She was in a far better mood today, though she could not decide precisely why. She had hardly slept the night before, and still had niggling doubts about where Professor Snape had come from the night before. She debated bringing it up to the boys, but decided against it. After all, the professor had opted not to punish her despite her blatant disregard for curfew. Perhaps, she thought, if she could do more observation…
If she developed any more reason to suspect Professor Snape, then she would bring it up to Harry and Ron. The two of them were so inclined to distrust Professor Snape, often to the point of outright hatred. Hermione knew that Professor Dumbledore trusted Snape, and therefore it would take a right mountain of evidence against the Slytherin Head of House in order for her to believe he was truly a Death Eater.
After some consideration the night before, Hermione had come to the tentative conclusion that Professor Snape had indeed been at a meeting of Death Eaters, or at least conducting some Dark business, for he had looked haggard and worn after storming into the castle out of the rain. But, again, Dumbledore trusted Snape. Hermione need only remind herself of that much. So, no matter where Professor Snape had been, it did not matter - she was quite certain he must have been there not for nefarious purposes but on behalf of the Order of the Phoenix.
As if to confirm her theory, Hermione found herself glancing up to the High Table, where the staff was consuming their lunch with as much gusto as the students. Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall were quietly but animatedly talking about something, while Professor Flitwick appeared to be demonstrating the wand motion for a charm to Professor Vector, who nodded emphatically whilst chewing a bun.
The staff scanned their eyes across the students periodically, took sips of their drinks, bites of food, and talked. All of them, anyway, except for Professor Snape.
He was sandwiched between Madam Pince and Professor Sprout, and both women were ignoring him completely. He seemed perfectly pleased with this arrangement, and had no food at all upon his plate, as far as Hermione could tell. He held a thick book up in front of him and had his eyes buried in the tome. Every few moments, Professor Snape lazily flicked the page over and his black eyes started scanning again.
"Hermione?"
"Hmm!" She startled and returned her gaze to the Gryffindor table, finally masticating the bite of apple that she'd been holding in her mouth for some time.
"What do you say?"
"About…?" Hermione hesitated as she glanced from Ron to Harry and back again. Ron's ginger eyebrows furrowed in confusion and frustration and his cheeks colored a bit.
"Wizard's Chess. In the courtyard… after lunch? Fancy a game with me?" Ron sounded a bit peeved at repeating himself. Hermione gulped heavily and forced a small smile to her lips.
"Of course!" she said as gleefully as she could manage. She was less enthused about it than she pretended to be, for a number of reasons. She didn't much fancy Wizard's Chess, finding the game to be appallingly barbaric, and Ron was much better than her at it. Still, he was her friend, and if she wanted to keep it that way, she had to compromise every now and again.
You can't live your entire life in the library, Hermione, she scolded herself.
She was doubting that sentiment heavily as she and Ron sat in the courtyard two hours later and he was perilously close to defeating her a third time.
"Check mate…" A sudden look of unmitigated glee spread across Ron's freckled face as he pulled his fingers up to his lips and leaned down to the chessboard. He raised his eyes to smirk playfully at Hermione, and she frowned at him as he whispered to the chessboard, "Knight to C-7."
"Oh, Ronald!" Hermione huffed angrily as she watched Ron's knight draw its sword and gruesomely decapitate Hermione's red queen before prancing triumphantly around the board. "Did he have to cut her head off?"
"That's Wizard's Chess, 'Mione." Ron sat up and slapped his knees with exaggerated bravado. "It's a war on a board."
"Yes, well…" Hermione scowled. "We'll be fighting a real war soon enough."
Suddenly the playfulness in Ron's eyes died, and he swept his wand up from the chair beside him and pointed it at his Wizard's Chess set.
"Depulso," he murmured quietly, and with a sweep of his wand, the chess set went soaring off the table and flying away, presumably to the Gryffindor boys' dormitory. Hermione didn't much care where it went as long as she didn't have to see little marble pieces hack one another to bits anymore.
"I'm sorry, Ron," she whispered. "I'm not trying to be -"
"No. You're right." Ron stared at his hands in his lap. "It's a stupid game."
They were quiet for a long moment, and Ron continued to look down while Hermione stared at him. He was more serious now, she thought, and much more handsome than he had been when they had first come to this place. The little boyish grins he'd shot about had turned into flirtatious smiles. The simpering look in his eyes when he saw piles of food or a good match of Quidditch… well, that was still there, but his eyes were less eager, somehow. They'd seen too much for a boy his age, and there was a strain behind them that made them look older. His jaw, his cheekbones, his nose… they'd hardened and become angular. The squishy, childish softness of his face had given way to the sharp lines of a man, and he was much taller than Hermione now. When had that happened?
Suddenly Ron was looking at her, and Hermione realized she'd been caught staring. She swept her tongue anxiously over her too-dry lips and stammered quickly,
"I… I have to go. I'm sorry. I have a terribly long essay to research for History of Magic. It's on Urg the Unclean. You know, the leader of the 18th century goblin rebellions? It's a critical biography. Anyway. I'll be in the library if you need me for anything. Not that you would need me for anything. But. You know. Just in case. That's where I'll be."
Hermione scowled at herself in embarrassment as she flushed red and yanked herself up from the table without another glance or word back at Ron, and as she walked briskly through the cloisters to the library, she wondered what on Earth had come over her. It was only Ron, after all. Just the silly little red-headed boy she'd been mothering for the past six years. She sighed and shook her head and put him out of her mind. She had an essay to write.
Severus did not frequent the Hogwarts library much as a member of the staff. He had amassed a large private collection of books, and therefore the pedestrian selection of literature available upon Madam Pince's shelves often proved woefully inadequate for his needs. As a teacher, his supervisory responsibilities did not extend into the library, where Madam Pince claimed sole jurisdiction. On the rare occasion that Severus had need of a book from these shelves, he entered the space on a Sunday afternoon, for that was when he was least likely to encounter students.
Today, he thought, there were sure to be none. It was still mid-September, and the weather outside was fair enough for pursuits like flying and walking about aimlessly, and snogging in hidden outdoor spots, and drinking forbidden firewhisky in the Astronomy Tower. Severus could not concern himself with any of it; he was not on patrol duty this afternoon. Let Minerva handle all the ill behavior the little cretins could throw at her.
Severus had been compiling lesson plans for his third-years for the next month, and had finally decided to turn to a text on centaurs (in order to magically copy and assign reading passages) that he did not personally possess. As he strode into the library, he had every confidence that any student with enough sense to be studying today would be doing so outdoors in the sunshine.
But, there she was. Hermione Granger. No surprise.
Severus swished past the table where she was hunched over a parchment, scribbling away furiously. It looked as though she had already written at least three feet of an essay, and she was entirely surrounded by thick tomes, most of which were open.
Severus rolled his eyes at her as he passed and continued on his way to the section on Magical Creatures and Beings. He glided his long fingertips over the spines of the aged books and silently mouthed the titles to himself until he found the one he wanted, and then he pulled it out.
The Stars From the Trees: Astronomical Techniques of the Centaurs.
It was a dry text, to be certain, and even Severus had no inclination to read the book in its entirety. He turned around and leaned his back casually against the stocky bookshelf, knowing that Madam Pince would eat a student alive for doing so. He flipped quickly through the pages of the book, searching out the section on Centaur designations for constellations.
"That's a wonderful book."
Severus pinched his eyebrows together tightly and frowned, glancing up to see Hermione Granger staring at him from her work table. She had sprawled out and was taking up the entire thing, Severus saw, though of course it did not matter since there was absolutely no one else in the entire library. Not even Madam Pince was here, apparently. Severus would have scolded her to be quiet, but he couldn't even do that, since there was no one to be quiet for. Instead, he slammed the enormous book shut and stood up straight, taking a few steps toward her table to hover above it.
"Under what pretense have you found the opportunity to read the entirety of The Stars From the Trees: Astronomical Techniques of the Centaurs, Miss Granger?" Severus cocked a disbelieving eyebrow at her and drummed his fingertips on the spine of his book. He shot her a look that told her in no uncertain terms that he was busy and she was bothering him.
Hermione Granger put her quill down beside her ridiculously long parchment and folded her hands neatly. "I had to write an essay for Astronomy on constellations last year," she pronounced in her too-clear method, "and I decided to focus on the Centaur designations rather than the traditional Greco-Roman ones."
Severus rose both his eyebrows now, his interest piqued. "I see."
"I found it fascinating, sir, that instead of seeing pots and pans in the sky, or crabs, or twins… the ancient Centaurs saw patterns. Not pictures. Patterns. Equations. It makes so much more sense. It's not Earth-centric. It's not relativist. Instead of the spatial relationships among the stars depending upon location, they depended on time to the ancient Centaurs… brilliant."
Hermione looked lost then, as if she had descended into her own thoughts. She had curled her own arms around herself and seemed to be wrapped in her own frightened sort of embrace, and her eyes stared blankly ahead as her words trailed into silence. Severus gazed at her in surprise for a long moment, alarmed by the level to which the information seemed to have affected the girl. Finally, he cleared his throat.
"Yes, well… as soon as I can find the chapter on constellations, I shall be copying it and assigning it to my third-year students," he said briskly. "I hope they find it as enlightening as you appear to have done."
She flicked her eyes up to him then, and there was a glint in them that Severus had never noticed before. Her lips curled up into a little smile. "Page three hundred and sixty," she said softly. "The chapter on constellations starts on page three hundred and sixty."
Severus frowned. How could she possibly remember such a mundane fact as that? He chewed the inside of his cheek and skeptically opened the enormous tome, turning the yellowed pages until he reached page three hundred and sixty.
Order in the Darkness: The Constellations As Seen By The Centaurs.
"It would seem you are correct," Severus conceded. "Thank you."
She was still smiling at him. It was disconcerting. Her little grin was not flirtatious, not inappropriate, just happy. He thought she must still be thinking deeply about the constellations, about the books surrounding her on the table - goblin rebellions, from the looks of it - and Severus shook his head. The girl was a head case.
"Well, that's all I needed. You should finish your essay, Miss Granger. The weather is fine. You ought to be out of doors on a day such as today. There won't be very many left before the hushed blanket of snow settles over this place."
Hermione nodded and glanced down at her parchment with a little sigh. "I'm nearly finished," she insisted, and though there were feet of parchment already written, Severus' experience with her essays told him that she could write much more and not be anywhere near done. "I'm just wrapping up the bit about how Urg the Unclean's being dunked into a pond by wizards led directly to his leading the rebellions. I've already stated my thesis and given factual assertions; I just need to wrap up a clean picture that wizarding bias and subsequent hateful behavior against goblins backfired in the form of violent uprisings."
"Mmm." Severus pinched his lips together and nodded at her. History of Magic had never been a favorite subject of his, and indeed he had found it distinctly boring as a student. Nevertheless, this particular essay struck a chord with him. How true it was, time and again, that the bullied fought back with fury.
Severus debated simply leaving Hermione to it, telling her to write quickly and get outside with all her peers. He thought about just grunting again and leaving the room. But he didn't, for some reason. A half hour later, he was still in the library, sitting at the table opposite Hermione, reading through her extensively long essay and discussing the subject matter with her at length.
"Well, would it be fair to say that most goblin uprisings in history were caused by wizarding bias and feelings of superiority?" Severus challenged after a while, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. He wanted to hear her get forceful, to hear her words keen forth in the passionate way he knew they could. He goaded her. "Or was this the only goblin rebellion caused by wizard bullying?"
"No!" Hermione exclaimed, and she went so far as to rap her hand upon the table. Severus' eyebrows shot up in surprise as Hermione animatedly continued, "Indeed, I would assert that nearly every uprising by nearly every race of Magical Beings in history has been primarily the result of prejudice on the part of the wizarding community. For Urg the Unclean, a personal brush with bullying was enough to lead a bout of rebellions, but we can look to uprisings by Merpeople, Centaurs, and Veela for further examples. Whenever the wizarding community has declared itself superior, inevitably the repressed community of Beings gathers and revolts."
She swallowed heavily and looked spent, her mouth dropping open as if she were a bit surprised with herself. Her hand upon the table closed into a fist, and her upper teeth dug into her lower lip as her mouth quirked into a self-satisfied little smile. Severus found his own lips curling upward in what was less of his trademark sneer and more of a truly proud little expression.
"There." The word snapped off his tongue and shimmered with an encouragement Severus was unaccustomed to hearing in his own voice.
"I'm sorry, sir?" Hermione looked confused.
"That's your conclusion. To your essay." Severus gestured down at the parchment, and Hermione only then seemed to remember that that was why they were there, for the previous half hour had been spent in vociferous and enthusiastic discussion.
"Oh!" she exclaimed at last, her fingers shooting up to her lips. Then her eyes flicked up to Severus with an expression of horror. "I can't remember what I said."
Severus smirked crookedly and pushed her parchment across the table at her. His memory was better than anyone else's he knew. "I'll remind you," he said.
By the time Hermione was finished writing, the sun was low in the sky and the sconces on the library walls had begun to illuminate themselves. Hermione cast a drying spell upon her enormous essay and rolled the long parchment up, closing all her books and stacking them up one by one.
"Oh, I'll have to put them away by hand. I can't remember exactly where they go to banish them there," she lamented.
"You need to get to the Great Hall, or you shall be late for supper," Severus insisted. "I'll put these away for you."
"Are you quite certain, Professor?" her eyes glinted with gratitude as she shoved her scroll into her messenger bag and pulled her black school robes onto her shoulders. Severus nodded curtly.
"Go, Miss Granger. It won't do for you to miss a meal… otherwise, you might find yourself roaming the castle in the middle of the night with a rumbling stomach."
Her cheeks reddened with embarrassment and she lowered her gaze, but Severus could swear he saw the smallest hint of a smile there. He ignored her and took the first four books in his arms, stalking off toward the History of Magic section.
"Thank you for your help, Professor Snape," he heard her say from behind him, but Severus didn't answer. He shoved the books one at a time into the shelves, and when he went back to get more, Hermione Granger was gone.
Two-and-a-half weeks later, Hermione strode toward the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom with an animated bounce in her step. She had her History of Magic essay rolled up in her messenger bag and was bringing it to Professor Snape's class. She intended to stay a moment after lessons to show him her high marks, and, most specifically, how Professor Binns had noted her 'clean and concise conclusion.'
She wanted to thank Professor Snape again for his help that day in the library, even though for the past several weeks he'd been his ordinary, ornery self with her and all the other students. Hermione could not help but remember how he had failed to tear her intellect down as they discussed goblin rebellions. He had nodded occasionally as she blathered on, asking prodding questions and inserting facts and figures to the best of his knowledge where Hermione was missing information. Only occasionally had he questioned Hermione's tactics or train of thought.
"Surely you can not propose that bullying is a sufficient excuse for violence," he had clicked at her, cocking a dark eyebrow over his heavily-lidded eyes. Hermione had gulped and felt her mind race as she struggled to form a quick answer for him.
"N-no… not always," she replied. "Only in instances of immediate self-defense. I'm not justifying the actions of the goblins, Professor! I'm merely providing a thread of commonality between historical events, which is discrimination from wizards."
Professor Snape had smirked knowingly at her then, and had looked very much as if he'd wanted to say something cutting and foul, but had instead nodded curtly. "Continue."
Hermione had never, not once in the past six years, felt any sense of encouragement from Professor Snape like she'd felt at that table in the library. His teaching style had always been belligerent and insulting. But there, among the open books, he had bantered freely with her and neglected to abuse her abilities. It had been like the sweetest breath of intellectual fresh air Hermione had ever breathed.
But, then, reality sank back in, and the next week in lessons, Professor Snape was back to his cutting and snide self. So, today, Hermione wanted to show him the evidence that his uncharacteristic mercy had paid off in spades. Her high marks on the essay were proof enough of that.
Her optimism was still alive when she took her seat between Ron and Harry in the classroom and listened obligingly as they chatted about drills they had planned for that evening's Quidditch practice. But then there was a great bang from the front of the classroom, and Hermione gasped a bit as she flicked her head up to the top of the winding stone staircase, where Professor Snape had just slammed shut the door. He was now descending the stairs with a purpose, his footfalls silent and cat-like as his lithe fingertips glided over the worn railing. The sixth-year students fell silent immediately, all conversations dying in mid-sentence.
Professor Snape never stopped moving, nor raised his eyes to the students, as he wordlessly flicked his wand at the windows. The heavy curtains fell down upon them, snuffing out the sunlight and cloaking the room in dingy shadows. With another lazy swish of his wand, Professor Snape willed the lanterns upon the wall to illuminate, and they simultaneously burst into flames, bathing the room in a dim, warm glow. By this time, Snape was coursing his way down the middle of the classroom, between the desks, and he gestured upward with his left hand as he barked,
"Out of your desks. All of you. Up to the front of the room."
The students obeyed without hesitation, taking their bags and books with them, and once they'd gathered in a nervous clump beneath the stairs, Snape whirled around and drew his wand in a silent arc around his body. The desks scraped and shuffled around the room as though guided by an invisible hand, until they were neatly arranged along the perimeter of the classroom. Professor Snape clasped his hands behind his back and stared at his pupils for a long moment, a sneer curling its way into his words as he pronounced softly,
"Nonverbal spells and charms are the easiest way to achieve one's means without giving away intent. They may be used for purposes as innocuous as shuttering a window, or lighting a sconce, or moving a desk. Or, they might be used to save your life."
A few feet away from Hermione, Neville Longbottom shifted his weight and cleared his throat a bit anxiously. The boy had always seemed quite nervous around Professor Snape, as had most Gryffindors, and Hermione had to admit that today the teacher was more intimidating than ever.
"Our last attempt at nonverbal spells did not go very well." Professor Snape glared at Harry as he spoke, and Hermione flicked her eyes to her friend. Harry's cheeks flushed scarlet with embarrassment. Hermione recalled how Harry's shield charm, when shouted, had pushed Professor Snape backward into a desk. Then, to make it all worse, Harry had given lip to the teacher, disrespecting him in front of the entire class. Hermione pinched her lips in chagrin at the memory.
"Nevertheless," Professor Snape continued, "Mastery of nonverbal spells is an essential part of conquering Dark magic when it is hurled at your person. I have no confidence whatsoever that said mastery will be achieved today, or even during your time at Hogwarts. But your time to study it is finite, so let us waste no more of it. Pair up and stand on opposite sides of the room. Now."
Hermione expected Harry and Ron to pair up, and she started looking aimlessly about the classroom for a partner. But then she felt a tap upon her shoulder and whirled around to see Ron there, smiling shyly at her.
"All right, then?" he said simply, and Hermione could not help but notice the pink blush that coursed through his pale cheeks. Hermione glanced over Ron's shoulder to see Harry walking away from them with Seamus Finnegan, the two of them chortling like little boys about something or another. Parvati and Lavender had paired up, of course, and all the other pairings made sense, as well.
Hermione flashed a grateful little smile at Ron and nodded. They took opposite sides of the classroom, with Lavender Brown on one side of Hermione and Harry on her other. The students waited quietly for instructions, and then at last Professor Snape paced between the rows.
"The exercise is simple. Take it in turns: one partner runs toward the other, who points his or her wand and silently casts the incantation 'Impedimenta.' If you are successful, your partner's running steps should be slowed to a dramatic crawl, or even stop entirely. Otherwise, if you fail, your partner will run straight into you. Full marks to those who stop their partners four times today, with descending marks accordingly. Begin."
Professor Snape's instructions were curt, uncomplicated, and left no room for questions. As always. Hermione glanced up at Ron.
"Ladies first," he called playfully across the room. "Come on, then."
She sighed, having no confidence whatsoever that Ron would be able to stop her. Deciding to give him plenty of time to prepare his nonverbal spell, she called out, "Three, two, one!" and then took off slowly trotting. Ron pointed his wand at her and narrowed his eyes, his face going beet red with concentration. Nothing happened.
Hermione deliberately slowed her steps so that she was only partially running. Around her, muted giggling rang out as students failed to impede their partners, who crashed into them or into the walls running. At last, Hermione felt a weak trembling in her feet, which spread like a creeping itch up her legs and torso until she could scarcely move. She felt quite heavy for about five seconds, and then her movement was entirely free again.
Ron's face erupted with pride as he nodded and folded his arms over his chest. "Knew I could do it," he said with a smug look. Hermione rolled her eyes with a grin and turned around, heading back to her side of the classroom. When she turned back to face Ron, she gasped, for not two feet before her was a wall of black cloth, and when Hermione raised her gaze, she was staring straight into the angry dark eyes of Professor Snape.
"Do not go easy on him, Miss Granger. You will only fool him into believing he possesses abilities he does not."
Professor Snape sounded irate, his words growling forth in a quiet hiss that only she could hear. Hermione sank her teeth into her bottom lip and nodded apologetically. "Yes, sir," she whispered, feeling a flush of embarrassment on her cheekbones. Professor Snape whisked away from her, his teaching robes billowing behind him as he barked criticism at Parvati Patil.
Ron glowered at Professor Snape, showing his characteristic hatred for the man, and Hermione shrugged at her friend as if to say that the quiet interaction was nothing at all. She beckoned for Ron to come at her, and, without warning, he was dashing quickly across the room.
Hermione's wand shot up, and she pulled all of her magic to the core of her mind before shooting it forth from her eyes and her wand in a silent will of power. Impedimenta! she thought, screaming the incantation in her head.
Ron's running steps ceased immediately, and his body pulled up off the ground a few feet before whooshing backward a bit. A frightened look crossed her friend's face as his immobilized body crashed downward, landing with a loud thud upon the stone floor of the classroom. Hermione glanced around anxiously to see that the other students were all watching her and Ron, and that Professor Snape had interrupted berating Seamus Finnegan to observe. Lavender Brown let out a horrified squeal beside Hermione.
Ron lay upon the ground for longer than Hermione would have expected, at least half a minute, and so she pattered over to him and stared down into his angry-looking eyes.
"Sorry, Ron!" she murmured apologetically, helping him to his feet once he was able to move and the spell had worn off. Her nonverbal incantation had been more powerful than she'd expected, or even intended.
Ron looked around the room and saw that everyone was watching him, and Hermione noted the scarlet humiliation that flamed over his face. He brushed the dust off of his school robes and reached down to pick his wand up off the ground.
"It's all right, 'Mione," he said. "Let's go again, eh?" He managed a weak smile at her before turning back to his side of the room.
Soon enough the other students resumed their activities. Hermione completely halted Ron every time he ran at her, but he was unable to stop her at all. By the end of the lesson, Ron was cross and cranky, and Hermione shoved her supplies into her school bag with a scowl upon her face.
"Really, Ronald," she huffed, "I was only doing as instructed."
"Whatever, 'Mione." Ron stormed out of the room, followed by Harry, who turned at shrugged apologetically at Hermione.
She stood for a long moment at her desk, which had been restored to its place by Professor Snape just prior to the end of lessons. Her eyes stung a bit as she realized that she'd made Ron furious simply by following directions. She had hardly meant to embarrass him.
As Hermione moved to buckle her bag closed, she spotted her rolled-up History of Magic essay, the one she had intended to show to Professor Snape. She glanced up to the front of the classroom and saw him at his desk, hunched over a pile of parchments that he was marking with sharp flicks of his black quill. Hermione stood watching him for a long moment, longer than she realized, and was jolted back to reality when she heard Professor Snape bark,
"Is there some particular reason the third floor is graced with your presence for an inordinately long time today, Miss Granger?" He glared up at her from his work, and as Hermione looked around the room, she realized all the other sixth-years had left the classroom. She cleared her throat and blinked quickly, her mind flashing to the History of Magic essay in her bag. But before she could reach for it, Professor Snape spoke again. His words were clipped and pointed. "Mr. Weasley was made to feel inferior today by your abilities. That is no fault of yours, so do not dwell on his imbecilic tantrum."
"I…" Hermione felt her mouth open in surprise. Had Professor Snape just obliquely complimented her skills? It certainly seemed like he'd done so, even if he'd had to do it by insulting Ron. But, then, Professor Snape flicked his eyebrows up dismissively and returned to marking parchments.
"You have remarkably poor taste in associates, Miss Granger." Professor Snape drawled this insult lazily as his quill scratched out a lengthy sentence upon a parchment, and Hermione's mind fizzled out any thought of a compliment. She shut her mouth quickly and bit the inside of her cheek, feeling insulted. When Professor Snape finally looked back up at her, she fully expected to see annoyance in his dark eyes that she was still standing like a fool at her desk. Instead, she saw nothing. He gazed blankly at her and flicked up an eyebrow. "Was there anything else?"
Hermione glanced down at her school bag and thought of the History of Magic essay. She finished buckling the bag and pulled it over her shoulder, straightening her school robes with a little sniff. "No, sir," she said softly. "Have a nice afternoon."
Severus landed back upon the outer grounds of Hogwarts with a resounding crack, feeling more nauseated than he usually did after Apparating. He was returning from a meeting with the Dark Lord, this time having been interrogated about Draco Malfoy's failed attempt to assassinate Albus Dumbledore.
Striding purposefully through the darkness, Severus made his way through the castle until he reached the gargoyle at the entrance to Dumbledore's office.
"Toothflossing Stringmints," Severus muttered, and the path was opened for him to patter up the stone stairs until he reached the lantern-lit expanse of the Headmaster's office. He knew Dumbledore had been here for hours, waiting for Severus' return.
"Well?" Dumbledore sounded more anxious than usual, his voice reedy and tight when Severus entered the room. He was facing the roaring fire in the hearth, and his ancient hands were clasped behind his back. Severus could see the black rot eating its way up Dumbledore's wrist. It was getting worse. Much worse. Steeling himself, Severus licked his lips and said,
"The Dark Lord is getting impatient with Draco, to say the least. He believes the boy is using ineffective and clumsy methods, and he doubts Draco will succeed in a timely manner."
Dumbledore nodded, still not turning around from the fireplace. "It has been two weeks since Miss Bell was sent to St. Mungo's," the old wizard noted sadly, "and I have no idea when, or even if, the poor girl will rejoin us here. The curse from the necklace has steeped itself deeply into her body and soul. I find myself consumed with guilt over the matter, Severus. The curse was meant for me, and yet a student was on the receiving end of an Unforgivable as well as a Dark object that nearly killed her…"
Severus could empathize with Dumbledore' sensation of guilt, but he found himself relieved that the cursed necklace had not made its way to Dumbledore. If it had, Severus' Unbreakable Vow to Narcissa Malfoy would have been void, which would have been fatal to Severus. Draco Malfoy would have also then been guilty of murder, an act that would have irrevocably damaged his soul. And Katie Bell would have still been Imperiused into delivering the murder weapon, which would have surely eaten at her for the rest of her life. No, it was better this way, even if the poor girl spent months in St. Mungo's for it.
"Our little Golden Trio are onto Draco," Severus said suddenly to Dumbledore, and the wizened old man turned around with a notable absence of surprise. Severus continued, "When Filch brought the necklace to Minerva and myself, Potter suggested openly that Draco was behind it."
Dumbledore nodded slowly. "Yes," he murmured, "I'm afraid the two of them have always embodied the stereotypical enmity between Slytherin and Gryffindor Houses."
Severus sneered and hissed through his teeth, "This has nothing to do with Houses and everything to do with murder. Lives are at stake, Albus."
Again, Dumbledore merely nodded. He strode over to his desk and took the lid off a small crystal bowl, using a small pair of silver tongs to extract some globular candies into his palm. He held his hand out to Severus. "Pear drop?"
Severus shook his head resolutely. "No, thank you."
"What did Miss Granger say when Harry suggested that Draco was behind the cursed necklace?" Dumbledore popped a sweet between his thin lips and chewed thoughtfully. Severus furrowed his eyebrows and shrugged, sinking into the chair across from Dumbledore's desk.
"She said nothing in front of Minerva. She shot daggers into me with her suspicious glare, just like Weasley did, letting Potter speak for the trio. As always." He paused, remembering how Hermione had lingered hesitantly in the corridor after the incident, her arms wrapped around herself in a frightened sort of self-embrace. Severus looked up at Dumbledore, chewing his lip thoughtfully as he said, "She asked me whether Miss Bell was going to live. I told her I could not say for certain; that the magic in the necklace was very dark indeed. Miss Granger then said that she felt very sorry for whomever had given the necklace to Miss Bell. 'It must take a very dark soul to employ such Dark Arts,' she said. 'Or, perhaps, the failure of the method means the soul has not blackened completely.'"
She had walked away from Severus then, scurrying off down the corridor after her friends and leaving Severus silently baffled in her wake. Dumbledore smiled weakly as Severus related the events of that day weeks earlier, stroking his long white beard as a soft glint crossed his pale eyes.
"She has a gentle heart, Miss Granger does, but a curious mind. Look out for her, Severus. In the days ahead, she must be kept safe... She is vitally important to Harry's success. We mustn't allow Miss Granger's inquiring mind to get the better of her." Dumbledore took another pear drop from the crystal bowl on his desk and chewed it, holding another out to Severus. Once again, the younger wizard refused. Why was it that every blasted time he was in this office, he was being peddled sweets? Was this Honeydukes or Hogwarts?
"Your Slytherin Quidditch team missed your presence this afternoon, Severus," Dumbledore sniffed. "They lost their first match to Gryffindor, I'm afraid."
"Naturally." Severus sneered his discontent. A too-clear image danced in his mind of Potter triumphantly grasping the Snitch from the air whilst the green-clad Slytherin players frowned in disappointment. Severus felt the corners of his lips turn down. "I suppose they're sulking in the dungeons. I shall go do my duty as their therapist… that is, their Head of House."
He pushed himself up from the chair and nodded briskly at Dumbledore before straightening his cravat and snapping his traveling cloak more neatly around his frame. He tried not to think at all about his earlier meeting with the Dark Lord as he strode with false confidence through the Hogwarts corridors. He cleared his mind and plastered on his trademark sneer, even though there was no one to see it.
Severus could hear the thudding and whooping of the Gryffindor celebrations a whole storey below the Tower. The post-Quidditch party in the Gryffindor Common Room sounded as though it were in full swing, and as Severus continued down a dark row of classrooms, he spotted one with the door slightly ajar. He rolled his eyes, thinking that two celebrating Gryffindors had likely chosen the spot for an out-of-the-way snog. Perhaps on another night, Severus might ignore the cracked door, but the Quidditch party was annoying him, and so his mood had fouled considerably since leaving the Headmaster's Office.
A satisfied leer crossed Severus' lips as he drew his wand and prepared to assign detentions and deduct the few points Gryffindor had managed to amass in the past few weeks. He tossed open the door to the classroom, taking mental bets with himself on which couple of Lions he would find sucking face therein.
But there was only one Gryffindor in the deserted classroom - Hermione Granger - and she sat atop a desk with her knees drawn up to her chest and her head burrowed against her thighs, her back shuddering pitifully as she cried.
Severus froze, suddenly wanting nothing more than to turn around and walk away, to go down to the Slytherin dungeons and give his House some consolation on their loss. This... this sight, a lone teenage girl crying atop a desk... this was not at all what he felt like dealing with tonight.
But, alas, Hermione's puffy, tear-streaked face flew up at the sound of the door banging open, and Severus was trapped. His wand was pointed at her, he realized, and he quickly lowered it. Hermione sniffed deeply and drew the sleeve of her sweater over her mouth, her breath quivering as she squeaked in disbelief,
"Professor Snape?"
Severus realized it was only nine-thirty, and therefore he could not even scold the girl for being out alone. She was a Prefect, and this was an unlocked classroom. Technically, she was breaking no rules. But he was hardly about to apologize for intruding upon what was clearly a very private moment.
"Miss Granger," he said tightly, "I... had expected to find a couple here, perhaps. What with the party."
Severus felt his cheeks color, for the words had not come out as authoritatively, or even as clearly, as he had intended them to do. He chewed upon his bottom lip and nodded, turning to go.
"Yes, well. There are plenty of those tonight," Hermione spat bitterly. "Just ask Ronald and Lavender."
Severus paused with his hand upon the door handle. He rolled his eyes and turned back to face the girl. "I make no apologies for my opinions on Mr. Weasley," he said, a bit more gently than he was wont to do, "as regards his association with you, Miss Granger. He is a child, still."
Hermione sat upon the desk and stared at Severus for a very long moment before saying anything. Severus suddenly thought perhaps he ought not to have said that to her. It wasn't that he regretted speaking ill of Ronald Weasley. It was that there was an implication in his words... If Ron Weasley was a child, what did that make Hermione Granger? In September, he knew, she had come of age. She certainly did not look like a child anymore, though Severus did not allow himself to regard any female student in that capacity.
What irked Severus, though, was seeing Hermione Granger trail after the immature ginger like a puppy after a bone. Ronald Weasley was obsessed with Quidditch and snogging and sweets and games. He always would be. The boy was less intelligent than a mountain troll, and Hermione Granger, of all people, would deign to waste her time with him? It bothered Severus, more than other students' trivial personal pursuits did. Her intelligence seemed too precious to be wasted on a beastly child like Weasley.
And now she was staring at him, her chestnut eyes wide and shining with tears. She looked... confused. Her lips parted as if to speak, but for a long moment, Hermione hesitated. Severus was about to insult her, to tell her that she looked like a fish again with her mouth hanging open, but then the girl said in an odd voice,
"You've got your traveling cloak on again, sir."
Severus glanced down at himself as if to confirm it. He frowned, crinkling his eyebrows, and narrowed his eyes at Hermione. "So what if I have? What business is it of yours, Miss Granger?"
She knows. She knows I was meeting with Death Eaters. The thought rattled about in Severus' head like a frantic hex, and he swallowed heavily. He watched Hermione for any tell she might have to indicate suspicion - a twitch of her eyelid, the way she dug her teeth into her bottom lip, a flush in her cheeks. But there was nothing. She shook her head kindly and shrugged, swiping a stray tear from her cheekbone. Her face was still blotchy from crying, but, Severus thought absently, she looked pretty enough in spite of it.
Severus remembered clearly what Hermione Granger had been like as a first-year, not only in appearance but in attitude and behavior. She had been downright unlikable, to other students and to many of the teachers, for suffocating the classroom with her arrogant bookishness. She had been a skinny, shapeless little thing in her baggy grey sweater and too-long school robes. Her bushy mass of hair had frizzed around her head like a dull brown halo, and freckles had dusted across her pudgy little nose.
Somewhere along the way, something had happened. Severus had not been paying attention, for he was a teacher and did not make a habit of tracking the pubescent development of his female students. But tonight, for some reason that made him acutely uncomfortable, the evolution of Hermione Granger had become very abruptly obvious.
Somewhere along the way, her shape had turned into what Severus might call petite and shapely, with a narrow waist and small bust, a gentle curve here and there, but nothing drastic. She was much shorter than most of the boys and many of the girls in her year, but lean enough that she seemed quite proportional.
The bushy fuzz atop her head, at some point, had been tamed. It was now a smooth cascade of waves and loose curls, caramel with swirls of cocoa and honey. Her face was still dusted with pale freckles, though they now danced across more angular cheekbones and a nose that had thinned and become more elegant.
Severus pinched his lips together tightly as it occurred to him that there was something inappropriately provocative in the way Miss Granger was sitting upon the desk, with her knees pulled up to her chest so that her school-issued pleated skirt draped gracefully around her thighs. He cleared his throat roughly and sniffed a bit before lowering his eyes to the stone floor of the classroom.
Never in over fifteen years of teaching had he laid a single covetous or lewd glance upon a student. The girls in his classes had always been just that - girls, young students under his charge. They aspired to snog boys a year above them and worried more about perfecting cosmetic spells than shield charms. They relished the day when they could legally buy and swig down elderflower wine, and the ultimate achievement in Transfiguration was the creation of a perfectly tailored jumper. That was what a seventeen-year-old girl was, wasn't it? That was what Severus had seen over the past fifteen years of teaching, almost without exception.
But Hermione Granger… here she sat, folded up shamelessly atop the desk, her tear-streaked face completely bare of any makeup whatsoever. Though her hair had been smoothed by age (and, probably, more refined combing technique), it was clear that Miss Granger did not obsess over Sleekeazy's Hair Potion. No, her priorities were elsewhere.
The bushy-haired little girl was gone. In her place was the young woman who had bantered with Severus about goblin rebellions, the lass who had cast some of the most powerful nonverbal spells he'd ever seen among a student. She was not the buck-toothed know-it-all from years past. She was impressive. She was not like the rest.
Stop it now, Severus. What the blazes has gotten into your thick skull?
In a flash, Severus found himself facing out into the dark corridor, his mind galloping with confusion. What on Earth had just happened? He had come to this classroom seeking a couple of Gryffindors upon whom he could impose a few weekends' worth of detentions, from whom he could take twenty House points. That would have made this miserable night at least mildly tolerable. How had that turned into… whatever this was? Contemplating the maturation of a student and staring at her for an inappropriate length of time?
Leave, Severus. Go to the dungeons before the girl notices the way you looked at her. She notices everything. Everything! Are you honestly fool enough to think she did not see how your wicked eyes stared at her? Leave. Go now and leave her be.
"P-Professor Snape?"
Severus froze with one foot out the door and ground his teeth hard against one another. She was infuriating, if he was honest with himself. He flicked his tongue irritatedly over his dry lips and scowled as he turned back around, alarmed to see that Hermione had slipped off of the desk and was standing a few feet in front of him, staring up at him with her wide chestnut eyes still damp from crying.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, wringing her hands anxiously in front of her. Severus rolled his eyes and huffed out a breath.
"Miss Granger," he growled, "your adolescent romantic melodramas are of precisely no interest to me. You are breaking no rules by sulking alone here, so if you care to mourn the fact that Mr. Weasley is snogging someone else, by all means, please do. It hardly affects my evening. Consider this dusty, empty classroom your shoulder to cry on."
He swept his hand grandly toward the space and rolled his eyes once more. But then he flicked his obsidian eyes down to Hermione Granger and saw that she was chewing her lip and shaking her head insistently.
"No, sir," she murmured, seemingly unaffected by Severus' insult. "I mean to say, I'm sorry for assuming… for insinuating… that is, Professor, you are quite right. Where you go in your traveling cloak is none of my business."
She nodded, more to herself than to him, and set her jaw squarely. Severus pulled his chin up and sniffed with a hint of suspicion.
"No, it isn't," he said softly, his mind screaming at him to just leave now. So without so much as a 'Good evening, Miss Granger,' Severus spun upon his heel and strode over the threshold of the empty classroom, leaving Hermione Granger behind as he made his way down to the Slytherin dungeons.
Hermione sighed and gave herself a final appraisal in the mirror. Professor Slughorn's Christmas party started in less than an hour, and Cormac McLaggen was probably already waiting for her in the Gryffindor Common Room.
"Oh, Hermione… I can't believe you Transfigured those dress robes by yourself!"
Parvati wandered into the girls' dormitory, a half-eaten tart from the Great Hall in one hand and a well-worn copy of Saucy Tricks For Tricky Sorts in the other. She took a bite of her tart and cast her dark eyes over Hermione approvingly. Hermione pursed her lips nervously.
"Are you certain?" she asked, looking back at her reflection. Parvati nodded emphatically.
"How did you do it?" she demanded.
"I started with a simple set of grey dress robes from Madam Malkin's," Hermione admitted, "and used a variety of charms to add the details, mold the shape, trim the sleeves, alter the neckline, and change the material."
"So, you basically made it from scratch, then." Parvati grinned widely and flopped onto her bed. Hermione smirked at the mirror proudly.
If she was honest with herself, it had taken quite a bit of work to make her dress robes for tonight, but she thought it well worth the effort. It wasn't often that Hermione tried hard to look decent, and on the rare occasion that she did, the finished product was gratifying… if only for one evening.
Now Hermione stood before her long mirror in a gown the color of smoke, which she had charmed to be made from a soft, liquid-looking silk. The three-quarter length sleeves had cutouts all up the sides, split to reveal Hermione's trim upper arms, so that the dress looked like something a Greek goddess might wear. The neckline was a bit plunging, perhaps, but the ruching that led to the waistline helped moderate the effect. At the nipped-in waist, Hermione had Conjured a jeweled silver belt, which glittered and sparkled every time she twisted her waist. The A-line skirt of the robes tumbled down to pool neatly around her feet.
Those feet were sheathed in a pair of glamorous shoes that Hermione had Transfigured from a pair of plain black loafers. She had every intention of changing them back for lessons on Monday. Tonight, though, they were silver peep-toe heels with a winding cage of jeweled leather swirling up around Hermione's feet and ankles.
She had Transfigured a few mundane items - a comb, a watch, and a scarf - into glamorous jewelry for the occasion. Silver-toned earrings with tear-drop rubies dangled from her ears, while a matching pendant hung delicately around her neck. A glittering silver comb was stuck into her hair, which she'd tamed into a sleek French twist for the night, leaving a few tendrils around her face. Hermione had kept her makeup conservative so that she did not look radically different from her normal appearance, but she had applied a bit of tinted face cream, a dusting of gunmetal eye shadow, a coat of mascara, and a ruby-hued lip balm. A dab of daisy-scented perfume upon each wrist was the final touch. As she surveyed herself in the mirror, Hermione thought she was as satisfied as she was likely to be.
"Cormac McLaggen is waiting for you downstairs," Parvati said from her bed, licking tart from her fingertips, and Hermione nodded solemnly.
"Right," she said, and she grabbed her wand and her small black velvet drawstring purse from her nightstand as she headed out of the dormitory.
"Have fun," Parvati called after her, and Hermione thought with a pang of guilt that the other girl sounded a bit sad that she was not included in the Slug Club party.
"All right, Granger," Cormac said approvingly when Hermione swept into the Gryffindor Common Room. Her silk skirts trailed behind her a bit as she walked, sweeping mellifluously with every step she took. Hermione felt proud of her handiwork. But Cormac's eyes were trained squarely upon her chest, and suddenly Hermione thought she had made the neckline of her gown entirely too low. She cleared her throat a bit and smiled self-consciously when Cormac flicked his eyes mischievously up to meet Hermione's.
"Ready to go?" she asked tightly, and Cormac nodded squarely.
As the two of them strode down the sixth floor corridor to Professor Slughorn's office, Cormac surprised Hermione by saying brashly, "You look like a proper nymph, Granger! Quite a dress."
Hermione felt her cheeks color. She wasn't sure whether it would be more appropriate to thank Cormac or to slap him, so instead she said nothing and quickened her steps. Soon enough they were at Slughorn's office, and once inside Hermione found herself immersed in a bath of red and green cloths, surrounded by boisterous caroling. Almost immediately, Cormac fetched Hermione a glass of elderflower wine, and Hermione gulped it down more quickly than she might have otherwise done, for she felt ill at ease with Cormac, and she did not yet see Harry or Ron.
"Look up," Hermione heard Cormac say after her second glass of wine, and she did. She wished she had not done so, for above her head dangled a mockingly cheerful ball of mistletoe. Hermione lowered her face to tell Cormac that mistletoe was a silly tradition, but as soon as she did she found her lips trapped by his.
His hands were on her shoulders, heavy and hot and moist, and his lips were pushing hard against hers. Hermione squealed angrily against Cormac's mouth and thrust her empty wine glass against his chest, stumbling backward away from him. Cormac let out a low, rumbling chuckle, swiping the back of his hand over his mouth and ignoring Hermione's scowl of rage.
"Sorry," he said insincerely. "Got swept up in the cheer of the season."
"I'm going to find my friends," Hermione said snippily, wishing very much that she had not agreed to come here with Cormac McLaggen. As she strode away from him, she determined that he could spend the rest of the evening alone, for all she cared. She tripped a bit over her high stiletto heel, but caught herself. At the sight of her little stagger, Professor Snape cocked his face away from his half-hearted conversation with Professor Slughorn and eyed her carefully.
"All right, there, Miss Granger?" Professor Slughorn called loudly, and Hermione smiled tightly at him with a little wave, thinking that the man looked as if he'd had far more wine than she had. She drifted over to the professors, feeling obligated to pay respects to the host of the party.
"Good evening, sirs," she said politely, nodding to Slughorn and Snape in turn. She lowered her gaze to her empty wine goblet and frowned.
"It looks as though Mr. McLaggen got a bit frisky under the mistletoe, eh?" Professor Slughorn guffawed, and Hermione felt her cheeks flush hot and red. She could not bring herself to look up, for Professor Snape was standing beside her, and she did not wish to look at him after two glasses of wine and a run-in with McLaggen. She wasn't sure quite why not. "Oh, but, Miss Granger, you simply must try the honey-mead. It is delicious. Here!"
Professor Slughorn seized Hermione's empty wine glass and thrust a full stein of amber mead into her hands, sloshing a bit over the rim. Hermione grimaced as she dodged the spill, looking up at Professor Snape as if to silently plead for assistance.
"I think Mr. Weasley and Mr. Potter have just come in," Professor Snape drawled, taking a sip of the whisky he held. "I'm sure they would love to see you in your fancy attire, Miss Granger."
"Yes. Well. Wonderful to see you both. Thank you for the invitation, Professor Slughorn… and for the mead." Hermione raised her mug and smiled tightly, and then she dashed off as quickly as she possibly could.
She spent the next twenty minutes talking to Ron and Harry, and then another half hour after that with Luna. Somehow, she made it through two servings of mead in that time. By the end of her conversation with Luna, Hermione had become almost fully convinced that there was a danger of extinction among Norwegian lake selmas due to the presence of other, more dangerous water-dwelling cryptids. It was all hazy, but Luna explained it beautifully, and it made perfect sense under the influence of abundant alcohol.
"Hermione."
She whirled around her shoulder, which was a mistake in her increasingly intoxicated state, and saw Harry standing before her with a look of grave concern painted upon his face.
"What's wrong, Harry?" she asked. Ron sidled up beside her, and for the next ten minutes, Hermione tried desperately to focus as Harry explained that he'd overheard Professor Snape and Draco having a most compromising conversation.
"What do you mean, he took an Unbreakable Vow?" Hermione hissed, dragging the boys into a quiet alcove and nearly stumbling as she did. Something compelled her to grab another glass of wine from a tray, and the boys were too focused on the conversation to stop her. She sipped anxiously from the wine as Harry explained.
"He told Draco he'd promised his mother that he would protect him and help him."
"What do you suppose Draco is planning?" Ron looked terrified, and he swigged at his own mead.
"I dunno," Harry shook his head helplessly.
"Well, this is just ridiculous," Hermione sighed breathlessly, drinking the last of the wine. "We know full well that Professor Dumbledore trusts Professor Snape. This must be part of how he's working for the Order. We ought not jump to conclusions."
"Hermione, how can you possibly trust that greasy git after Harry hears something like this?" Ron sneered, disgust evident in his voice. Hermione felt her ears grow hot with anger as she looked up and down at Ron. His dress robes were very ugly, she thought suddenly, ignoring the conversation at hand.
"You both are blinded by hatred," she said finally, "and by a lack of trust that you decided upon long ago. Dumbledore trusts Professor Snape, and that's good enough for me. Now, if you recall, Ronald, I asked you to come to this party with me, and you turned me down. I'm going to find my date now. Goodnight, gentlemen."
She huffed off, knowing perfectly well that her steps were swooping and crooked. The room was swaying, the music sounding far-off, and Hermione knew in that moment that she had had entirely too much to drink. Ignoring that niggling thought, Hermione spotted Cormac upon a velveteen bench and strode over to him. He rose with a cocky smirk upon his lips and stuck his arm out to her.
"Thought you'd find your way back to me," he slurred, and Hermione could smell firewhisky on his breath.
Cormac dragged Hermione out of Slughorn's office, somehow, and before she knew what was going on, they were alone in the corridor. Hermione registered the absence of the Christmas carols, the transition from red and gold and green to the dark greys of the stone hallway. But when her back pressed up against the cold wall, she shut her eyes, for she was suddenly very tired.
"I think I'd like to go back to Gryffindor Tower now," she murmured to Cormac, her eyes still shut. "I'm sorry. I had far too much to drink. I've only ever had a few butterbeers, or a half a tumbler of firewhisky at most… never like this… so stupid…"
She bent over at the waist, a wave of nausea crashing over her like an ocean wave, and tried hard not to vomit. When the nausea passed, she stood upright again and cracked open her eyes, surprised to see Cormac McLaggen still standing in front of her. He had a hungry look in his eyes that frightened Hermione a bit. She thought she should leave, that he looked far too interested in her, but her legs felt like they were made of lead, and her mind felt like slush.
"Cormac," she muttered, "I'm going back to my room now."
He was pulling her hands up to nestle in his sandy blonde curls, and he let out a low moan of pleasure as he moved her fingertips against his scalp. Hermione tried to recoil… why was she giving him a head massage? But then his lips were on hers again, like they'd been under the mistletoe, and when she pulled her face away in disgust, Cormac moved his mouth to Hermione's neck.
"You look very pretty tonight, Granger," he mumbled against her skin, and the rumble of his voice made Hermione shudder. She wanted him to go away, to leave her alone, but she just stood there, feeling her eyes well with silent, desperate tears.
"No, Cormac…" she whimpered meekly, her hands reaching up to his shoulders to push him off of her body. He flew away from her, stumbling backward forcefully, and Hermione wondered vaguely how on Earth she'd managed to push him so hard. Then she heard Professor Snape growl at Cormac,
"Stand up, Mr. McLaggen."
Hermione pulled herself up against the stone wall and sniffled, watching with fascination as Cormac staggered drunkenly to his feet and came eye-to-eye with the raven-haired teacher.
Professor Snape looked handsome tonight, Hermione thought distantly. He wore no billowing robes, only a nicely tailored jacket with small buttons all down the front and at the narrow sleeves. The trimmings of a crisp white shirt peeked out around the high neckline and at his wrists, and his trousers tapered elegantly to glossy dress shoes. Even his stringy hair looked more in order tonight, falling in inky contours around his severe face. At the moment, Professor Snape looked quite unhappy, with his wand gripped tightly at his right side and his left hand balled into a white-knuckled fist.
"I believe Miss Granger has had quite enough of your company for this evening," Professor Snape told McLaggen, "and, since you seem to have had quite enough firewhisky, I think it is high time you found your way back to Gryffindor Tower. You shall have detentions with Mr. Filch for six Sunday nights beginning at the recommencement of term. Go to bed, Mr. McLaggen. Now."
Cormac looked abashed at having been caught by Snape, and irritated at having been assigned detention, but he scurried down the corridor without another word. Hermione watched him go, swaying on her feet, and then suddenly dissolved into silent tears again as she remembered the unwanted feel of his mouth on her neck.
"Miss Granger." Professor Snape's tone was gentler than Hermione had ever heard it, and though he stood a few feet away, his words were barely louder than a whisper. Hermione raised her eyes to Professor Snape's. His dark eyes looked almost sad, or perhaps tired, as he asked softly, "Is there any reason I should escort you to Madam Pomfrey, Miss Granger?"
He wanted to know if Cormac had done anything to her… truly done anything to her. Hermione shook her head no, burying her face in her quivering hands.
"I'm sorry, sir," she whispered. "I should not have had so much to drink, and I -"
"No, you should not have," Professor Snape agreed firmly, "but to the best of my knowledge, Mr. McLaggen is a proficient speaker of the English language. When I came into the corridor, I distinctly heard you tell him 'no.' And, yet, he persisted in kissing you. That is…"
Professor Snape's lips pursed angrily, and Hermione saw a deep scarlet flush of anger course over his cheeks. His fists clenched at his sides again, and he lowered his obsidian eyes to the ground. "I shall be speaking with Professor Dumbledore about this," he promised. "You should come with me, Miss Granger. I do not want you to return to your dormitory intoxicated and emotionally distressed. I have a potion that will sober you up quickly so that you can go straight to bed."
Hermione nodded drowsily and followed Professor Snape down the corridor, walking in silence until they reached a winding staircase. For two flights of stairs, Hermione managed to successfully follow Professor Snape, but then her drunken ankles betrayed her, and her high heels gave way. She tumbled down a few stairs and crashed into the back of Professor Snape, reaching for him in desperation.
She clutched at his jacket as she staggered to stand upright, and she felt his strong hands grasping her arms, pulling her back to her feet. Then she heard his indignant sigh as he huffed,
"Miss Granger, you'd be far better off barefoot than with those ridiculous shoes. Go on. Take them off."
Hermione felt humiliated as she held fast to Professor Snape's forearm for balance with one hand while using the other to yank off one shoe at a time. She grasped the stilettos in her fingers and held up her long skirts as she padded silently down the stairs behind the professor, who now seemed thoroughly irritated.
Eventually, they reached the third floor, and then the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. Hermione stood helplessly inside the cavernous space as Professor Snape wordlessly lit the sconces and proceeded briskly up the stone staircase to his office. She waited for him at the desk where she always sat for lessons, glancing about the empty room. She mused that it felt a bit strange to be in here alone, in a gown, in the middle of the night, completely drunk.
Finally, Professor Snape trotted down the stone staircase, carrying a glass phial in one hand and an empty goblet in the other. He approached the desk where Hermione sat and pulled a chair away from another desk so that he could sit opposite her. He set the small, dark blue phial down upon the desk before Hermione, and then the empty goblet.
"Aguamenti." Professor Snape pointed the tip of his wand into the goblet, and a small jet of water burst forth until the cup was full. He pushed the goblet across the table at Hermione. "The Nec Mora Arida Potion rapidly accelerates the process of alcoholic metabolism, leading to full sobriety within twenty minutes. The potion can also contribute to dehydration, so drink up, Miss Granger." He gestured at the water.
Hermione decided to down the goblet of water first, taking the water down in four large gulps. She then picked up the little blue phial of Nec Mora Arida Potion and pulled out its cork, tipping back the contents into her mouth. It tasted like licorice and chalk and something cloyingly sweet, all at once, and Hermione gagged a bit. Professor Snape conjured more water for her, which she gladly sipped, and nodded her thanks.
"I'm very sorry, Professor Snape," she said at last, after he had tucked the empty glass phial into the pocket of his black jacket and Vanished the goblet.
"Why?" He sounded annoyed by her question, and he crossed his arms over his chest as he sat back in his chair with an ankle crossed over the opposite knee.
"I should not have let him -"
"Stop it." Professor Snape shook his head quickly, sniffing as he looked away from Hermione. She furrowed her eyebrows, wondering in her drunken state if she'd made him angry for some reason by apologizing. He looked very handsome, Hermione thought again, and she would hate to make him angry. He finally returned his piercing black gaze to her and muttered, "many boys your age don't yet know how to be gentlemen. I'm sorry for that. Sorry that you…"
He stopped, pulling himself up short as though he realized he were about to start rambling off an aimless apology at her. He squared his jaw and nodded once, curtly, crossing his arms more tightly and looking away again. "Let me know when you feel more clear-headed, Miss Granger, and I shall escort you back to Gryffindor Tower."
Hermione nodded blankly. She folded her hands atop the desk and stared at them for a moment. She opened her mouth to speak and then shut it again, knowing that what she was considering saying might lead to all sorts of trouble. But then she blinked heavily and made up her mind.
"Professor," she said nervously, raising her eyes to him, "Harry heard you talking to Draco tonight."
He did not look as surprised as Hermione thought he might, and indeed Professor Snape appeared to examine his fingernails for a good long moment after she spoke.
"Professor?"
"I heard you, Miss Granger."
Hermione frowned. She chewed upon her lip and waited for him to explain, and when he did not she pressed, "He said the conversation made it seem as though Draco is involved in something awful, sir, and Harry seems to think you are complicit in it."
"You do not sound as convinced of my guilt." Professor Snape cocked an eyebrow at her, looking mildly amused, and Hermione sighed in frustration. He was maddening sometimes, this man. He put up a stony front over his gaunt, severe features, making his thoughts impossible to read since Hermione was no Legilimens.
"No, sir," Hermione admitted finally. "Professor Dumbledore has said time and again that he trusts you completely. If you have earned the unequivocal faith of Albus Dumbledore, then surely a girl like myself ought to be able to trust you."
Professor Snape smirked broadly as if Hermione had said something very humorous. Hermione abruptly wondered if there had been some absurdity in her words that, in her lingering intoxication, she'd missed. She flushed a bit and shifted nervously in her chair.
"Draco has been tasked with a most… unsavory project," Professor Snape pronounced delicately. "As part of my work for the Order of the Phoenix, I am obliged both to report this information to Professor Dumbledore and to maintain appearances of loyalty among the opposing forces. I have agreed to protect and even assist Draco with this difficult assignment, ugly though it is, as part of my work for the Headmaster."
He was speaking in euphemisms. Hermione might still be a bit drunk, but she could tell that Professor Snape was avoiding coming straight out and saying that Draco Malfoy was a Death Eater. But that was clearly what he was saying, wasn't it? Draco Malfoy was a Death Eater. Hermione felt her heart race as her suspicions were confirmed.
"I honestly can say no more to you right now, Miss Granger," Professor Snape said tightly, "and I must insist that you not share any of this with Mr. Weasley or Mr. Potter. You understand?"
Hermione nodded mutely, and then, finding a trace of her voice, croaked, "Yes, sir. I understand. I'm sorry. I just… I wanted you to know that the boys, well… they suspected something after tonight."
Professor Snape sneered again. "Those two have suspected me of being evil incarnate since the day the boats brought them from the Hogwarts Express to be sorted by the Hat. I shall hardly expect a birthday card from them next month."
Hermione chuckled a bit at the thought of that, of Ron Weasley giving a birthday card to the fearsome Professor Snape. Perhaps he'd give him a Christmas cracker, as well. Hermione sighed then, for she'd only decided a few days prior to stay at Hogwarts for the Christmas holidays, and thinking of Christmas crackers made her question her decision.
"What is like around here at Christmas?" she asked suddenly, steering the conversation away from Draco Malfoy. She looked to Professor Snape, who curled his lip back in an expression of thinly veiled distaste.
"Delightfully maudlin," he clicked sarcastically. "Professor McGonagall gives a stocking to each student who stays over the holidays, while Professor Flitwick insists on charming everything into festive oblivion. Hagrid inevitably builds an army of snowmen outside his hut, and last year Madam Hooch enchanted them to play Snowman Quidditch. It was probably more entertaining than it should have been because the entire staff was filled to the brim with brandy prior the match."
Hermione erupted into giggles as Professor Snape spoke, though he maintained a grave air of contempt upon his face. She did not feel so desolate about staying now that there was the prospect of flying snowmen hucking Bludgers at one another.
"Why do you ask?" Professor Snape said finally, once Hermione's laughter quelled. "Aren't you going home to your dentist parents?"
She found it fascinating that Professor Snape remembered so mundane a detail as her Muggle parents' occupations, so Hermione grinned broadly across the desk as she spoke. "No. Not this year, sir. Professor Binns was very impressed with my essay on goblin rebellions. He wants me to conduct a few thorough research projects from now to the summer. Not for extra credit… just, because most students don't even bother staying awake in History of Magic, and Professor Binns said he enjoys reading my essays, sir."
She found herself beaming, quite against her will, and Professor Snape cocked a curious eyebrow at her. "So you shall be spending your Christmas holidays in the library, then?"
With a derisive little laugh at her own expense, Hermione nodded. "I'm afraid so, sir. I haven't enough time during the term to do as much research as I'd like. I'm going to spend the holidays conducting research on Burdock Muldoon. He was the Chief of the Wizards' Council in the fifteenth century; he tried to -"
"To classify all magical creatures as either Beasts or Beings. Yes." Professor Snape nodded emphatically. "That would tie in nicely with your work on the goblin rebellions of the 18th century. What would be your thesis on Muldoon?"
Hermione quirked a little smile at his interest. "I'm not entirely certain yet, sir. I need to research the first attempted meeting of Beings more thoroughly. What is of great interest to me is how Burdock Muldoon was so spiteful after the failure of the congregation that, thereafter, he strictly excluded all non-wizard creatures from the Wizards' Council. Prejudice born of experience, rather than the archetype we usually see in history and literature, which is -"
"Tolerance born of experience." Professor Snape nodded again. "Intriguing. It has potential. You will need to read all of Bathilda Bagshot's chapters on the Wizards' Council, of course, though I'm certain you've read them all before. I'd recommend a book called With My Call I Prophesy Doom. It is a lengthy and mournful tome about augureys, but highly informational since they are infrequently studied but were important participants in Burdock Muldoon's meeting of Beings."
He looked thoughtful for a long moment as he seemed to be flicking through a catalogue of books in his mind, and Hermione stared at him with rapt attention and admiration. Why had she not known that Professor Snape was so knowledgeable? Of course it made perfect sense, for he seemed to know every charm and spell, every potion recipe, by heart, but…
"Then there is The Disappearing Diricawl, which is brief enough that you should be able to skim it for pertinent information. Guarding The Steeds: The Elusive Porlock and His Relationship With Wizardkind. A very old text, perhaps outdated in many ways since horses are no longer critical to society, but certainly relevant for the context of Muldoon's time. I trust you have paid close enough attention over the past six years that you do not require further details on trolls."
Professor Snape smirked again at Hermione, who thought with a blush of embarrassment back to her first year. That was how she'd become friends with Ron and Harry, after all - they'd locked her in the girls' bathroom with a damned mountain troll, convinced that Professor Snape had set it loose on the whole school.
"No, sir," Hermione sighed with a sad little smile, "I think I know plenty about trolls."
Professor Snape pulled a brass pocket-watch from his tailored coat and flicked the cover open, glancing at the face before clamping the watch shut again.
"It's been over a half hour," he announced, "Do you feel yourself again?"
Hermione swallowed heavily and looked about the room. The space was no longer swimming in her vision. She was not dizzy anymore, and her nausea had subsided. With a twinge of guilt, and more than a fair bit of shame, she realized how she had come to be sitting across a desk from Professor Snape in an empty classroom. She glanced down at herself and was abruptly self-conscious in her low-cut gown, and felt her cheeks grow warm. She frowned and flicked her eyes up to see Professor Snape eyeing her with a question in his black eyes.
Hermione remembered thinking while she was drunk that he was handsome. Well, she hadn't been all that wrong, she considered. Tonight, more than usual, Professor Snape looked sharp and sophisticated. Certainly, Hermione had enjoyed the past half hour here with him, snarkily discussing Hogwarts Christmas traditions and rattling through a historical book list. It had been a far better time than that she'd been forced to spend with Cormac McLaggen, that was certain. Professor Snape had been right, after all. The males who were Hermione's age were all boys. Ron was petulant and immature, while Harry was volatile and unpredictable. Cormac McLaggen was… well, he seemed to be thinking with the wrong bloody organ, that was for certain. But the person across the desk from Hermione was a man, not a boy, and he had been the one to yank her aggressor away from her. He'd been the one to give her a potion to set her rights, the one to make certain she stayed hydrated. He'd even known all the books she should use for her History of Magic research.
Oh, come off it, Hermione. He's your bloody professor. More than that, it's Professor Snape. Get a grip on yourself. Go to bed. When you wake up in the morning, you'll see this whole stupid night was a mess, and you'll start over and pretend none of it happened.
"Miss Granger?"
Hermione gasped a bit, jarring herself back to reality. Professor Snape had both his eyebrows raised and was waiting for an answer. "Do you suppose you can go back to Gryffindor Tower now?" he asked.
"Oh. Yes. I'm sorry, sir. Yes, I'll be fine. Thank you for all of your help. Truly."
Professor Snape did not respond to Hermione's rambling platitudes, instead wordlessly rising from his chair and straightening his fitted jacket in a way that sent an unwanted shiver down Hermione's spine. He swept around the desk and held out his arm, and Hermione stared at it for a moment before placing her fingers tentatively upon his forearm. She pulled herself up to stand, wondering with a surge of amazement if he was going to truly escort her all the way back to Gryffindor Tower with her on his arm.
But as soon as she rose from the chair, Professor Snape let his arm drop to his side, and the long walk to the Fat Lady was completed in silence.
