A/N: All right, you wanted a sequel? This is the sequel to "The First Cut's the Deepest." XD I don't know how long it will be yet, although probably not all that long. Voldy's dead, set in 5th year.
Her trunk thumped down the stairs behind her. She couldn't be bothered to put a levitation charm on it this time. The back bounced painfully against her legs, and Hermione bit back a gasp of pain. The marks on her arms throbbed in time with her heartbeat.
Christmas vacation had come far too soon, and like she had expected, she was headed home for the holidays. No matter how much she had prayed for a last-minute invitation to the Burrow or even Grimmauld Place, she'd known it wouldn't come. No one ever invited her to spend the holidays with them. Not even Harry and Ron. She had her "loving family" to return to, after all. Bitterness twisted her smile.
"Going home, Miss Granger?" a deep voice startled her from her thoughts. She looked up to see Professor Snape standing at the bottom of the stairs, his arms folded across his chest.
"Yes, sir," she answered as politely as she could manage. Obviously, you git, she added in her head. Where else would she be headed with her trunk, after all? Running away in the middle of winter wasn't the brightest of plans, and Hermione was, after all, the "brightest witch of her generation."
"Happy Christmas, Miss Granger," Snape replied, making her eyes widen in shock. There was something in his eyes that she couldn't quite recognize. It almost looked like compassion. But-no, it couldn't be, could it? Not from the snarky Potions Master. Not unless he was Polyjuiced.
"Happy Christmas, Professor," she repeated dutifully and tugged her trunk past him into the Entrance Hall. A gust of icy cold wind blew across her from the half-open doors and she shivered. All thoughts of her Potions Professor's surprising behavior left her as she lugged her things down to the train platform and her mind filled up with images of what she was returning to once more.
It had started as far back as she could remember. Her father had never been a kind man. Her mother had never paid much attention to her, either. Marybeth Granger was a woman who had never wanted to be a mother. And from before Hermione could talk, she had known it. There was no love in her mum's eyes, no pride when her daughter learned to read at the age of three. Only boredom and patronization when she deigned to talk to the child.
Her father...Hermione sighed as she found a compartment as far away from everyone as she could manage. She didn't want to think about Stephen Granger at the moment, the man she had gotten her eyes from and the untameable bushy mass of her hair. No, the reality was coming far too swiftly for her liking.
Home for Christmas. She'd never wanted to be so far away.