The castle is silent, the halls are dark, and Hermione Granger is quickly and quietly making her way to the bed she should have been in hours ago. She knows it is hypocrisy, that she would take points from anyone else she finds in this position, but she does not spend much time dwelling on it. This year has been worse than stifling and yet she has persevered, her Gryffindor determination keeping her going when what she really wants to do is lie down and admit defeat for the first time in her life. She is exhausted. She has even found herself thinking on more than one occasion, to her horror, that N.E.W.T.s might not be worth it. Nightly walks help to keep her sane when her head is swimming with facts and figures and words are doubling and redoubling before her eyes even when all her books are closed. She fought in a war; N.E.W.T.s are not going to get the best of her.
Despite this new disregard for the smaller of the school rules, she thinks she is not much changed from the over-eager schoolgirl she was before the year on the run and the final battle. She is here, after all, while so many of her former classmates are now out in the world, living adult lives. Or in the ground, her traitorous brain supplies, and she ruthlessly forces the thought away. but she is, perhaps, more changed than she would like to think, for when Severus Snape seems to materialize right out of the shadows, her heart barely skips a beat.
"Professor," she says calmly, politely.
"Miss Granger," he returns, neither calmly nor politely, but in his trademark hiss. "Do you own a watch?"
"Yes, sir, of course," she says, knowing where this is heading and seeing no way to stop it.
"And does it not occur to you, from time to time, with that infamous Granger brain, to check it?"
"Yes, sir."
"then perhaps you are simply too assured of your own importance?" he suggests. "Perhaps you think yourself above those silly school rules that apply to every other student in this castle? Remember that word, Miss Granger. Student. That is what you are."
"Yes, sir."
His eyes flash. Her responses, or lack thereof, are angering him, she can see that. And yet, what is there to say? She knows she deserves this lecture, and she knows there is nothing that will deter him from the course he has set.
"Detention, Miss Granger," he says finally, sneer firmly in place. "Tomorrow night, eight o'clock, my classroom. You seem to need a reminder of just where it is that an over-inflated sense of entitlement can get you."
He turns and sweeps away before she can agree or disagree. She continues on to the tower and her bed, feeling a curious lack of anger or resentment or even worry toward her detention and the unpleasant, enigmatic man who has issued it.
She knocks on his door just as the clock is beginning to strike eight the next evening. He does not rise to answer but bids her enter, ignoring her when she does and leaving her to stand by the door for a full ten minutes before acknowledging her. Her task is cleaning cauldrons, without the use of magic, of course, and she sets to work without comment. This is her plan: do the work, get out. Head down, do not stray.
And so it continues. He gives her more tasks, calls her back evening after evening, says he simply does not have time to attend to all the little things that need to be done and she has shown herself in need of extra discipline. She does not protest, does not challenge him or attempt to point out that she has broken no more rules since he caught her returning from her walk. Stay on the path, she reminds herself, do not stray. She thinks eventually he will tire of her, or run out of menial tasks for her to perform, and then he will let her go. She is still keeping up with her studies, and he is giving her something else to focus on, so she will not complain.
And then it happens. She knocks on his door promptly at eight o'clock and he bids her enter without rising, just like every other night. But as soon as she steps into the room she knows something is different. He is not at his desk, but instead standing in the middle of the room, watching her. Predatory. What big eyes he has, she thinks, the better to see her with. She feels as though he is peering into her very soul. And what big hands he has, she notices for the first time as he gestures her nearer, the better to feel her with. He removes her outer robe. And what strong arms he has, she realizes as they encircle her, the better to cage her with. She trembles against him.
She is crimson, crimson for blood and for fire. He is black, black for night and for fury. He can hardly breathe as he watches her, as she comes awake to what has been building here between them. Her struggle is beautiful. Stay on the path, she is still admonishing herself, do not stray. There is danger in the woods, safety as long as she keeps her feet firmly on the path. But whose path has she been walking? she finally thinks to ask herself. What is the worst that could happen if she strays? She wants to feel alive, awake, to break free from the stupor she has been living in since the final "avada kedavra" was spoken and the final body fell. She wants to do something selfish, she does not want to be good and careful and always thinking of others.
So she strays, and he, the wolf, smiles his humorless smile. What big teeth he has, she thinks dreamily, the better to eat her with. He looks at her and his mouth waters; she is just ripe enough to pluck. His sweet, his innocent, his Little Red Riding Hood. Her skin is pale in the flickering light and there is no grandmother, no woodcutter, no mother waiting anxiously for her return. There are only the two of them, and the dark, and he devours her alive.