Disclaimer: anything you recognize is J. (lucky woman.) I own what little is left. This is an introduction chapter, the rest should be longer.
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The noise in the great hall was deafening, waves of sound echoes around the room like thunder through the night sky. Hermione liked the noise; it let her withdraw into her mind and contemplate things that have passed, and ponder where her future might lead her. She thought herself to be very down to earth, with her head and heart being ruled by logic, rather than emotion. There was no room for feelings in her life. She knew, that with the final battle coming ever closer, she must watch her thoughts and guard her emotions, as those who know how too easily manipulated them.
Pulling herself out of the trance, she smiled wistfully at Harry and Ron, who were chatting animatedly about a recent Chudley Canons match. The pair seems so full of life, and it was only the poorly hidden pain in their bright eyes, that suggested they were not ordinary teenagers. Pain, Hermione thought, which would only intensify over the following months. It seemed unfair that someone so young should have so much responsibility. Then, she snorted quietly, she was beginning to sound like Professor Dumbledore! With that, Hermione picked up her fork and ate, enjoying the simple pleasures of life while she could.
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Professor Snape sat at the high table: back straight, feet planted firmly on the floor, and a dark scowl etched onto his pale face. His pitch black eyes were deadly tunnels, gazing across the sea of dunderheads; his expression so sinister it equaled the night sky. He, like Hermione was deep in thought, probing the inner depths of his mind and walking through his less painful memories. Moving his head, he caught a glimpse of the golden trio sitting at Gryffindor table, they looked relatively happy. Sneering, Snape decided that he would make their last year at Hogwarts as uncomfortable as possible. Just like the brat's father had done for him.
The potions master left well before the end of the welcoming feast. His feet lead him quickly and surely down to the dungeons, with his heavy black robes billowing behind him, adding to his already bat like appearance. Soon, he disappeared behind a small, heavy oak door that often went unnoticed by students and particularly…undesirable members of staff. Snape's quarters were frigid with cold, but he refused to light a fire and accept the warmth it gave. He was not weak; the cool air would not harm him. Sliding into his straight-backed chair, he sighed and pulled a stack of poorly written essays towards him. With cold fingers he picked up a simple, raven quill-that oddly fitted his character-and marked the papers with his close, careful handwriting.