October is solemn, she thinks. Solemn. And regal. And doleful.
Harry and Ron are casting reproving glares at the enchanted ceiling, all the while lamenting the fact that they will have to practice Quidditch in the rain once again. She smiles because it isn't really too bad. The mass of pale, ponderous grey roiling in the ceiling above them is rather pretty. In a melancholy sort of way. In a way that promises the unstoppable. The end of the wait. The deluge.
She says something to this effect. Harry gives her a withering look, the one he uses to let her know that he thinks she is full of it. Ron gapes at her.
Eight minutes.
It's been a full eight minutes since she last glanced at the staff table. Already her rebel eyes are sliding furtively in the direction of his seat. Have been, in fact, for the past six out of those eight full minutes.
She just went through the major participants in the Goblin Wars of the eighteenth century in her head, then the details of the formation of the International Confederation of Wizards. The names of the Supreme Mugwumps from the Wizarding community of Liechtenstein are as familiar to her as those of old friends, but her attention falters nonetheless.
He wasn't there when she last looked, and he probably won't be there if she looks again.
Unless...
Maybe he just had to grade a few papers, or tend to a recalcitrant potion, or something, before sweeping out of the dungeons and heading to the Great Hall to scowl hawkishly at the students.
Yes, it's entirely possible. Plausible, even.
Maybe he's heading here right now. It isn't such a long way from the dungeons, and with his towering stride and brisk pace, the trip will be even shorter.
He will billow through the halls and stop only to terrorise an errant first year or two. Then he will emerge from the doorway behind the staff table and loom there for a few seconds, daring anyone to make eye contact. He will give a terse nod to Dumbledore, and perhaps to McGonagall if she looks in his direction. He will cast a sweeping glance across the Great Hall, straighten his robes, then climb the three steps to the dais on which the staff table stands. He will pull out his chair, an elaborately gilded one that he finds unnecessarily ostentatious, and he wishes he could Transfigure it into something simpler but that would be in bad form. He will sit, he will glare, but he won't eat. He will place his elbow on the table to trace a finger around his mouth like he always does, or perhaps up and down his goblet, leaving a trail in the condensation. And when he lifts his hand, the cold droplets from his goblet will cling to the tip of his finger.
Surely he's sitting there right now, his eyes scanning the four House tables. He will start with Slytherin, of course, to the far left. Then Hufflepuff, then Ravenclaw, then—
She looks up.
Oh.
Well.
Well.
Of course he isn't here. He probably hates having to dine here. Maybe he has the house-elves bring his meals up to his rooms when he isn't required to make an appearance. Merlin knows how fervently she longs for that privilege.
She sets her fork down on her plate and tries to listen to what Ginny turned to say to her. The various noises in the Great Hall coalesce into a single high-pitched hollow droning that scatters her thoughts into disarray.
They call themselves Dumbledore's Army. She was against it at first, but it grew on her. Naming their group means that it is something of an official affair, and Hermione likes being in charge of official things.
She smiles to herself, watching as Ron successfully disarms Neville for the fourth time in a row.
It is childish, the name they decided to call themselves, and Gryffindor to the very core. She imagines the benignant, faintly condescending chuckle with which Professor Dumbledore would respond if they told him that they formed an illegal army in his name.
Many of the members are incompetent, saying the incantation wrong or failing to perform the appropriate wrist movements. Most of them are far too enthusiastic, arcing their wand arms widely and sending the spell careening off toward the bookcases and the piles of mattresses. The red jet of light that indicates that the charm is performed correctly is mostly absent. Michael Corner manages to make Terry Boot's wand wiggle erratically out of his hands. Ernie McMillan is performing some sort of grand twirling movement with more body parts than necessary, giving Colin Creevey enough time to knock him back before Ernie can say the incantation.
And Neville... Dear Neville.
But despite all the shoddy performances, there is an undercurrent of... something in the air. A vibrant thrill of high spirits and sheer excitement and impatience. An indefinable feeling of youthful invincibility. The painful uplifting awareness of being part of a generation born into war.
It isn't being fearless, exactly. They are all so slight, the lot of them. All of them steeling themselves for disaster. But it is a good feeling.
Like everything can be burning tomorrow, and the stars can shatter and the earth can roar but them? They will be alright, the lot of them.
Because they are together.
And because of Harry Potter.
He is roaming about the practicing pairs, giving out advice, straightening a wand arm, trying to maintain a look of stern approval on his face. She knows that he is discomfited. It is evident in the angle of his shoulders and the tension of his jaw. Just a week ago, a lot of the people in this room were gaping at him as he walked through the halls, whispering about how that Potter boy was once again blabbering rubbish about Voldemort's return.
He is very good at this sort of thing, though. At seeming completely solid and dependable, even if he thoroughly doubts himself. At being this immovable structure you can count on to take the brunt of the heat. He is greatness disguised in unruly hair and a skinny face with the glasses that always slide down his nose. He is boldness and strength and hope among a roomfull of children. She feels a sudden impulse to go over to him and ruffle his hair proudly.
Nothing, a voice echoes wickedly in her head.
No. No. No.
They are unlearned and inexperienced. And a lot of the people that came to the Hog's Head were just hoping to hear a first-hand account of Cedric Diggory's death. And they probably won't stand a chance in an actual duel with actual Death Eaters. But sometimes you realise that you cannot live without certain things, and sometimes these things are taken away from you and you have to fight for them, and maybe burn for them, and perhaps die for them.
And this, she thinks, this, exactly, is what it means to be brave. And loyal. And a Gryffindor.
"Hermione," Ron comes sidling up to her, grinning with self-satisfaction. "It's your turn to practice with Neville."
"Oh, alright. Come on, then, Neville." She gives him an encouraging smile. He grins back nervously.
They face each other and raise their wands.
At night she finds herself heading down the same steps at the same time wading through the same cabalistic darkness with the same anxiety clicking in her throat. Then she is at the same spot, waiting for a movement, a voice, a grip. Waiting for the bitter touch of stone.
But there is nothing. There is no one. She heads back to her common room. Head down, pace brisk.
"—no, see, it's more of this sort of wave—" Hermione demonstrates the movement.
"And it flows into a jab at the end." She thrusts her wand forward.
"Reducto!" Lavender yells, pointing her wand at a small footstool. It wobbles for a bit, then topples over to the floor with an offended clunk. She groans in frustration.
"Why isn't it working, Hermione? I did exactly what you said!" Lavender whines.
"Well, you have to put more force in the jab. Oh, and enunciate the syllables clearly, don't string them together. Here, let me show you."
She closes her eyes for a second. Concentrating. Feeling the familiar tingle of magic rising under her skin and coursing to the very tips of her fingers. She aims at a small table in the corner.
"Reducto!" There is a loud crack and the table splinters into pieces. Lavender looks at her in despair.
"It's alright, Lav. You'll get it, I promise."
"Oh, are you doing the Reductor curse, then?" Parvati skips up to them.
"Yeah—er, do you want me to show you how to do it?"
"No, it's alright, I've got it. Reducto!"
Parvati aims at a table identical to the one Hermione broke, and her motions are perfect. There is a flash of white, a deafening bang, the smell of smoke. The table lies in a pile of ash. Several people turn to look, wands aloft, mouths hanging slack.
"Bloody hell, Hermione..." Ron breathes from across the room, where he was duelling with Seamus.
"Oh, erm, it wasn—"
"That was... wow. Wow. Why didn't you teach us how to do that?" Harry asks her.
She feels her cheeks heating up.
"No, it wasn't me, it was—"
"Oh, come on, Hermione. You're the cleverest person in this room. I think we all know who did that just now."
She is back to nail picking.
"Harry, thank you, but no, it really wasn't me—"
"Herm—"
"Er, Harry... I did the spell. It wasn't Hermione..." Parvati cuts in, shrugging her shoulders with good nature and smiling modestly.
"Oh. Oh—er, great job, Parvati, that was excellent..." Harry trails off. The rest of the D.A. scuttle back into pairs and resume their practicing, and once again the Room of Requirement is filled with bangs, yelps of pain, and intermittent flashes of light. Harry walks up to her, looking distressed.
"Sorry, Hermione, I really thought it was you."
"It's fine, Harry."
"I didn't mean to put you on the spot like that. But, I mean, you could have done that easy— you're the best at spe—"
"Harry. It's fine, honestly."
"Yeah? Right, then. Well, carry on, I guess..."
"Alright."
"Okay."
Meeting at the Hog's Head was a mistake. Even Madam Puddifoot's would have been better.
Anytime now Umbridge can burst in the door to the Room of Requirement, eyes bugged out, jowls aquiver, waving yet another one of her Educational Decrees in her stupid prejudiced little sausage fingers.
It's strange because there is no sign of Umbridge, no sign of having been found out. It's even stranger that Professor Snape never brought the issue up again.
Hermione resolves to be more careful next time.
What about charmed notes? Students pass each other notes all the time. It's practically a rite of passage. She can put the message in code. Runes will work. She can make it look like something frivolous and completely unworthy of attention.
No.
She can't very well send the notes out in the Great Hall during mealtimes. Umbridge will get far too suspicious if the same students get the same flying bit of paper every time they have to set a meeting for the D.A. And she is certain the owl post is being watched. And it will take too long to charm each note to only open for a specific person.
Then, there is the matter of breaking the code. She doesn't trust all the members of the D.A. to properly decipher what the message actually contains.
Her bottom lip finds its way to its familiar position between her teeth. What a terrible thing to think. Of course her friends are fully capable of cracking a simple code. But still...
She draws a line through charmed notes on her list.
Harry is staring at her with concern. He probably thinks that she is involved in some great personal cataclysm, and this is why she cannot answer such a simple question. It's rather endearing, really, his ability to jump to preposterous conclusions. Ron, on the other hand, looks slightly mollified now that it is evident to everyone that she does not, in fact, hold the answers to everything. She gives him her most waspish glare. He arranges his features into a caricature of contrition.
"Miss Granger."
His voice is startling in its proximity. He was just there, standing in front of Parkinson's cauldron when he asked her the question.
She looks up to find him blotting out the light in front of her into tyrannical black. It feels like his glare is mincing her to bits, and a strange, wet sound comes out of her throat. It is a booming crack in the quiet of the classroom.
"Perhaps you would be so kind as to enlighten us with your boundless knowledge."
Everyone is silent in that way that people are silent when they are collectively anticipating some gigantic collision. Even their cauldron-fulls of potions daren't bubble.
"I will not. Ask you. Again."
"Th-the difference between..." She whispers, desperate for any sound, anything at all, to break through the strange stillness crammed in her brain.
Hermione did not raise her hand because she does not know the answer. She cannot remember what the difference between bundimun secretion and tincture of bundimun is. She cannot remember because of him standing breathing looming hardly moving in front of her. Because he has one hand behind his back and the other (jagged blue-grey veins pulsating under ashy white) resting on the edge of her table. Because he is looking at her as if she is a lump of noxious rot at the bottom of an unwashed cauldron.
She tries to do herself justice and look him in the eyes, to prove herself worthy of the name Gryffindor and dig for purchase in his eyes, but she remembers a night when they were aglow with a fervid brutality and the closest she comes is the point of his cheekbone . She stares at a button on his throat, instead.
And the seconds pass. And pass. And pass. Each tick and each tock a death knell to the reputation of Hermione Granger, brightest witch of her age.
It's a funny thing, time.
A nagging voice in her head is telling her to stick her chin up and say something (something-something-anything). She feels her lips move of their own volition, trying to formulate words that she cannot think of.
Her deliberately systematized thought process fails her and all that comes out of her mouth is a pathetic stutter.
He gives her a look of such utter disdain that she almost thinks she deserves it.
He stalks away and she can hear his voice, mocking her and all her books and all her words to the rest of the class. She and her infantile delusions of intellectual superiority. And she isn't certain if it is his voice that she hears in her head, or her own. There is an unbearable pressure thudding behind her ears that transforms all sound into a steady, beating, grey whirr and little squares of light bleeding out in front of her eyes and the pressure morphs into a warmth that she cannot stand andshehastogetout—out!—has to escape to a place where his vitriol can't reach her.
She hears Harry and Ron's voices from a distance, from underneath the layer of viscous liquid that is bathing her senses. She knows that they have leapt to her defense. She knows that she has to tell them to stop, that it's alright, that his words have absolutely no effect on her because they are not true. But the liquid makes its way down her throat and it coats her muscles and it seals her teeth shut tight and it is as vicious as he is. And it forces her to silence.
Hermione loosens her grip from the quill she does not realise she is holding. The vague, needling voice in the back of her skull returns to tell her that she is made of stronger stuff, and that she should stay. But she ignores it.
She ignores it and flees.
"Shit. Shit. Shit. Bugger. Shit."
She is sitting in a damp alcove in the dungeons just a few meters from the Potions classroom. Her lip is trembling and she knows that she looks every part the blubbering little girl that everyone surely thinks she is. She is also feeling very sorry for herself, a sentiment that she normally despises when she sees it in other people. She doesn't like hypocrites.
She drags her sleeve across her sodden face in annoyance. Even before the door shut behind her, she knew that she would return because since when did Hermione Granger run away from her battles? She had burst out the door and ran, then stumbled, then shuffled her feet. She didn't get very far before her sensibility caught up with her. She hates herself for it.
And so here she sits, postponing the inevitable.
"Bugger. Bollocks. Shit."
She tries her best to mop her face with her sleeves, pressing her fists into her eyes in an effort to subdue the swelling and the redness and the hot tears. She does not understand why she let his insults affect her as they did, when he'd dished out far, far worse in the past.
The stupid little voice in her head is back, now that the sniffling and the hiccupping and the pound-pound-pounding have subsided.
You're weak, it is saying. You're weak, and you're snivelling like an idiot, and you're so bloody weak, and you. Let. Him. Win.
She fidgets.
And huffs.
And wrenches a hank of bushy hair behind her ear.
She is sure she looks a fright, but she left her wand along with all her other things in the classroom.
Brightest witch of her age? She snorts.
She finally stands, dragging her protesting feet until she is in front of the Potions classroom door. She hears his voice diffusing through it. It is amplified by the muggy walls. It surrounds her in the cramped hallway. There was always this quality to his voice that is strangely comforting, but only when it is separated from his sneers and his venom and all that dense indecent black wrapped around him like armor.
She closes her eyes and leans her forehead on scratchy wood. She feels the faint warmth exuded by the torches above the door, and their balmy light flickers in mesmerizing bouquets of russet and amber through the tears that cling to her lashes.
With his voice tinting the air around her and the pretty lights winking like holding a magnifying glass to your eye and bringing it close, then moving it farther, then bringing it close again, it is almost like a dream. A dream in which Hermione Granger wasn't really Hermione Granger, because the real Hermione Granger isn't this weak.
One second, and she will open the door. She will walk in, and sit down, and brew her potion. Because she isn't weak.
One second.
One second more.
"Bollocks. Shit shit shitty buggering bollocks."
"Fuck," she adds in a tentative whisper.
One last second more, she promises herself.
She places her hand on the doorknob and—
"Miss Granger. If you have quite finished with your histrionics—" the door flies open and trembles on its hinges as it hits the wall—"get in, or leave my class for good."
She barely keeps herself from stumbling forward. Harry is looking at her like she is bound to spontaneously combust at any moment. Ron is red in the face, like he always gets whenever he yells, and he switches back and forth between dirty looks at Professor Snape and encouraging nods at her. Malfoy and his group are exchanging fatuous grins, Parkinson sniggering into her hand.
And there in front of the class is Professor Snape looking at her in that way that feels like a challenge like he is so sure that she can't handle it.
For two agonizing seconds, two eternal seconds, her mind is blank. But then, the two seconds come to pass, after all.
She is sure she looks a fright. And she is sure she will get a zero for the day. But.
But.
"Quite finished, sir."
Because she isn't weak. And she may be a hypocrite, and she may snivel like an idiot, but she isn't weak. And the thought straightens her spine and lifts her chin. And the voice in her head is her own voice again.
Later she will think that she always has the most intense, most memorable, most self-conscious reactions to him. She could be angry, or violently upset, or quietly defensive, but whatever it is she is reacting with, it is always strongest when it involves him.
And perhaps it is because he is an unknown variable to her, and she, with her inborn unshakeable curiosity, overcompensates for not knowing by reacting too much. In any case, she can't really help it.
It is a revelation of sorts, and it strikes her as somewhat important, though she doesn't exactly know what to do with it.
"He looks happy." Ginny nods her chin in the direction of a bellowing Harry. "Just look at him go."
Hermione places a finger on the end of the sentence she just finished reading and looks up.
"I know. It's nice."
By now, Harry is on his feet, gesticulating wildly at the chessboard between him and Ron. Several first or second years edge away cautiously. Ron, on the other hand, has an uncharacteristically placid smile on his face. He is getting far too accustomed to demolishing his opponents in wizard chess.
"—you bloody well knew that was an illegal move—"
"Language, Potter!"
"—and you still, oh, er, sorry Hermione, and you still fucking did it! I thought we agreed—"
"It wasn't illegal, you prat," Ron cuts in with utmost calm. "Boris Denisov demonstrated—"
"Like I give a rat's arse what Boris bloody Deniso—"
"—master in wizard chess, and you're just sore that you—"
"—smug grin off your face right now or I swear on Merlin's grotty testi—"
Hermione burrows deeper into the overstuffed couch, shoving her feet under Ginny's outstretched knees to keep them warm. Ginny obligingly stretches her blanket out to cover Hermione's calves.
"He does seem rather... Loose, doesn't he?" Hermione smiles. Ginny responds with a giggle.
Harry is getting redder and redder, Ron even more self-satisfied with each passing second. Harry's swearing has improved vastly in sheer inventiveness, a skill he undoubtedly picked up from Fred and George. But she doesn't mind, not at all.
Because there is a rage building up inside him and it scares her. And sometimes he is silent and pensive, like a cliff frozen in the moment of rupture, and she knows that he is thinking of the lives that he is responsible for and the greatness that was thrust on his scrawny shoulders and how there is no way out from under or from above. Other times, the rage makes itself known and he spews out his helpless fury.
But at other times still, less often, he is not Harry-Potter-the-boy-who-lived, but Harry, dear Harry, with his hair too long at the ears and his robes too short at the wrists. And for now, it is enough.
She shakes her head and puts her nose back in her book.
She is asleep.
And then, she isn't.
Her mind reels for a moment, not ready for the sudden jolt into consciousness. Then, slowly, everything melts back into place, and shadows solidify in front of her eyes. There is her nightstand. There is her lamp. There is the rising and falling lump that is Crookshanks snoring by her feet.
She is breathing hard without knowing why and the covers are knotted inextricably around her legs.
There was a dream. The kind that feels more real than real ever does. But those are also the kind that slip out of your grasp like sand through your fingers.
She sits up, trying to remember. Wisps of colors, phantom sensations flit through her mind.
There was warmth, she thinks. Or was it frigid cold? Whatever it was, it was unbearable. There was the barest tinge of hysteria, the aftertaste of asphyxiation in her throat. There was... A hand? Yes, there was a hand. Clamped around the back of her neck. A left hand, attached to a left arm, an arm whose muscles writhed under desecrated, ink-stained skin.
She rubs her eyes. She hates the stale taste of sleep in her mouth.
And then—
She leaps out of bed, and clatters her way to her book bag. It takes her a full minute to locate it in the dark. She freezes mid-grab as Parvati shifts and mutters, but then decides she doesn't care if she wakes up everyone in the room. She drops to her knees and shoves her arm in her bag and rifles through. Her fingers scrabble at her ink pot, her tin of mints, her spare hair band before closing on the loose bit of parchment she is looking for. She fishes a quill out from between the pages of her Transfiguration textbook, and crawls over to a scant patch of moonlight on the floor.
Protean Charm, she writes in bold, blocky script.
She sits back on her knees. It's N.E.W.T. level magic, but she is Hermione Granger, which means she knows the theory. All she has to do is memorize a series of wand movements, master the proper articulation, and she's all set.
Yes. Yes, it's perfect!
There may be some research to be done. She has to figure out how to modify the charm to respond in kind to a change in one designated object. There may be hoursof research to be done. She feels the familiar anticipation in her fingers, eager to crack open something with pages and pages of ponderous, barely-discernible script.
But what object should she cast the spell on? It has to be something commonplace enough that it won't be found strange if discovered in the possession of D.A. members, yet distinctive enough that it won't be misplaced. Perhaps a scrap of colored parchment, or a coin. A coin would be far more subtle than charmed notes.
She scribbles the word coin (Galleon?) under Protean Charm, feeling inordinately pleased with herself.
She rubs at the second knuckle of her little finger, at a spot where she never fails to find a smudge of ink after handling a quill.
Desecrated, ink-stained skin.
The ink on her fingers rubs off. It smears and spreads and it gets all over her clothes, but it always rubs off. But there are some kinds of ink that seep in, and steal through, and lacquer your bones with an immutable pollution. Some kinds that clog up empty spaces and stay there forever like a prison sentence, and are as indelible as the stench of death.
When Ron's hand brushes against hers on patrol, she commits to memory the texture of his cool skin. His hand is large, and unwieldy, and lovely.
"Ron, you'll never change, will you?"
"What is it I did this time?" he asks, affronted. "I finished that essay for Flitwick the other day!"
"Never mind, Ron." She smiles. He smiles back, and she knows that he isn't nearly as thick as he lets on.
They take the short way this time, treading around fringes of shadow. And she pretends that the heat in her face is brought on by the strain of walking, and not by his hand brushing against hers again.
And again.
And again.
"—can't believe you put this off for Quidditch practice—"
"—stick out of your bum, honestly. And the match is only a week away! A week! And you expect me to—"
"What did you just say to me?You know what? Fine. Go and fly around on your—your little broomsticks of death and toss your stupid little quiffles—"
"Quaffles. It's pronounced quah-ffle. With a bloody ah."
"—don't care! Alright? I don't! Do whatever you like, and you can die on your flying stick alone in the rain for all I care, just don't come snivelling back to—"
"—don't understand a thing about—snivel? I don't sniv—"
"—my help. Because I won't help you this time. And when you wake up in the morning and realize that the O.W.L.s are two days away, let's see how much Quidditch practice is going to help you."
"Hermione."
She sniffs.
"Hermione."
"What?"
"It's October. Did you know that? October. The O.W.L.s aren't 'till June."
"Harry. I don't think you realize how quickly eight months can go by."
She looks around for support.
"Ron. Ronald! I know you can hear me! Aren't you going to say something?"
"What? Oh... Er, well, Angelina did make us swear not to miss practice. You know what she's like, she's almost as bad as you someti—"
She rounds on him.
"Oh, come on, Hermione. Harry's right, it's the first match of the season, and even if you don't like Quidditch, doesn't mean it shouldn't be a priority for us. And—don't look at me like that—eight months don't go by that quickly. So... Er, yeah."
"Ugh! Fine. Fine."
She snatches her completed essay from Ron's hand, and marches up to her room.
"Oi! I needed that!"
She smiles at the lump of orange and green wool she has been working on for the past forty-five minutes. She thinks her skill in knitting has improved wonderfully over the past month.
"Ginny, can you tell what this is?"
Ginny looks up from her homework.
"Erm... Is that a hat? Either that, or a sock. It's definitely something that goes on a body part."
"Thanks!" she replies brightly. Definitely improved. Something that goes on a body part is exactly what she is going for, and not Some poor bloke's badly transfigured kidney, as Ron had put it.
Ten inches and three quarters. Vine and a core of dragon heartstring. Smooth. Pliant. Warm. It is a beautiful hue of brown, richer than that of her mousy hair, more vibrant than the mud of her eyes.
She thinks that it is sleeker than Harry's. Far more supple than Ron's. And maybe more graceful than Ginny's. But she remembers how powerfully their wands have responded to them, how sparks seethed from their tips when their wielders were particularly angry or upset. This has never happened with hers.
She used to wonder if it was because of her blood, the unrefined alloy of magic and Muggle that flows through her veins.
There is Parvati and her formidable Reductor curse. Fred and George, with their effortless charms. And Professor Snape, with his constitutional instinct for the art of potion-making.
She watches him through the fumes of her cauldron. His back is to her and he moves around the room to inspect their potions. Hands behind his back, posture erect. He stopped by her table earlier and moved on without a word, without looking at her. She knows her potion is perfect. It always is. She knows she is good at this sort of thing, at reading instructions and performing them admirably. At organizing, and controlling, and bridling. She knows that she has top marks in all her classes, and that she can absorb facts and imprint them into the very tissues of her brain. Because she is Hermione Granger, and she is put together, and pragmatic, and sensible.
Because she is Harry Potter's... Clever friend.
She can almost feel the weight of his sneer.
But these are things that she doesn't like to think about, because she likes to tell herself that she isn't weak. And he can call her whatever he wants to, but she isn't weak.
"Please, Hermione."
"Sweet, gentle Hermione."
She purses her lips.
"Come on, McGonagall's gonna murder me. Me, Hermione. Your oldest, dearest, manliest friend."
She raises an eyebrow.
"Apart from Harry, of course."
She turns the other way. Ron is silent for a while. She hears him rummage through his pockets, cursing as various objects drop to the floor. A fat, floridly purple package is thrust into her lap.
"It's the last of my stock. There's a couple of that toffee spice kind that you like so much. Delicious, shiny, chocolatey, er... chocolate full of sticky toffee that dribbles down your chin and—"
"Oh, give it here, you big git."
Her lips twitch.
He thanks her profusely as she revises his Transfigurations essay. October expires in an ecstasy of dappled gold on the other side of the castle walls, and it is beautiful. It is beautiful. Life is beautiful.
Harry, Fred, and George are banned from Quidditch. And the entirety of Gryffindor is in a funereal mood. And Umbridge has managed to ruin yet another thing that makes Hogwarts home. But the first snowfall of the season is upon them, a shower of pale grey against pale black, and Hagrid's lights are spilling out into the night for the first time in months, and, really, this is all she ever needed from the world.
Her mouth is too dry. Her tongue is too thick. The room is too warm. Everything is wrong and nothing can be done to make it right.
"Miss Granger, please, sit down. Professor Snape, if you would..."
A hand closes around her elbow and guides her until the back of her knees hits something soft. She sinks down automatically.
Oh, Mr. Weasley.
Mr. Weasley, who always asked so kindly about her parents. Who always welcomed her into their already packed home. Who grinned at her exuberantly, clasping his hands together, when she explained to him why Muggles need to floss regularly. Who, with all his pecuniary difficulties, is one of the most honorable people she has ever known. Who helped her see that maybe Purebloods, just like Mudbloods, can be much more than they seem.
And—oh, but Mrs. Weasley, and Ron and Ginny! Seven. There were seven of them. Seven children deprived of a father.
And Harry. Harry will do what he does best, and blame himself. And this scares her, because this might be the tipping point, the push that he needs before everything falls apart in their faces.
Just when everything seemed so close to normal, for a change.
"Miss Granger." Dimly, she registers that she must respond. It is the Headmaster, after all. Images of red, red, red. Red in thinning patches on a pale scalp, red in glistening swathes on a stone wall.
"Miss Granger," Professor Dumbledore says, more firmly this time.
She wills her eyes to focus themselves on his face, not wanting to seem impolite.
"Yes, Professor Dumbledore."
"Would you like some tea?"
Tea. Would she like some tea? Because a cup of sodding tea can fix everything, and sop up the red, and bring people back to life. Would she like some bloody tea? Yes, tea would be lovely, thanks. Perhaps a biscuit or two, if you have them.
"No, thank you."
He settles back into his seat, steepling his fingers under his chin.
"Arthur Weasley survived. He has been taken to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries."
"Oh."
Oh.
She feels as though she has just stepped off an aeroplane, and the pressure bubbles swelling against her ears finally pop, and all sound rushes through in a cacophonous blur.
Oh.
She rubs her eyes and is surprised to find them wet. She forces the dry knot in her throat back down into her gut or whatever you call that place inside of you where you keep dangerous things like fear and doubt and pretense.
"W-will Mr. Weasley be alright?"
"He is as fine as can be expected, considering the gravity of his injury. His condition has stabilized, and I believe we are to expect full recovery in a few weeks. The Weasley children and Mr. Potter have already seen him yesterday, and are staying at the Black residence for the time being."
"But please, sir. Could... could you tell me what happened?"
Professor Snape makes an impatient noise somewhere to her left. She pushes his presence to the back of her mind. Professor Dumbledore levels her with a calculating look, and she knows he is deliberating what can be told and what should be heard.
"Arthur Weasley has been injured in the course of his duties for the Order of the Phoenix. Fortunately, we learned of this immediately after its occurrence, and thus were able to prevent any... lasting effects."
Lasting effects. What a courteous way to put it.
"It was Harry, wasn't it? He's the reason you found out about the attack."
"Have you been in contact with Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley?" he asks.
"Oh, no. It... it was Seamus and Dean. They told me about what happened in their room the other night, that Harry was having about a nightmare, and he kept yelling something about a giant snake. They didn't tell anyone else though, they wouldn't," she adds hastily, fearful that she just landed her housemates in trouble.
"No, no, Mr. Finnegan and Mr. Thomas are perfectly trustworthy young men." His voice is mild and paternal once again. "Now, I understand you had plans to take the Hogwarts Express ba—"
"Is this why you've been avoiding Harry, sir?" She realizes with horror that she just interrupted the Headmaster, but the question hurtles out from between her lips with an urgency that she cannot tame. From the corner of her eye, she spies Professor Snape's form straighten to its full height.
"Avoiding Harry, Miss Granger?" For the first time in her life, she quails apprehensively under the gaze of her Headmaster.
"Well, Harry's been having these dreams. For a while now. And we, Ron and I, we always tell him to go to you about it. And I know he used to, in fourth year, when the dreams started. And I know that he and... and V-Vol—" she stutters.
A series of syllables, an opening and closing of lips, she reminds herself. But she remembers a night when a hand was clamped around the back of her neck, and a wand dug a hole into her temple. And she sees a shifting of black from the corner of her eye. She clears her throat.
"I know that Harry and You-Know-Who have some sort of... connection through his scar, so that's why he has those dreams. But he doesn't go to you, not anymore, and whenever we speak about you, I can tell he's bitter about something..."
"And what reason could I possibly have for avoiding him?"
"Perhaps... perhaps you thought that this connection they have is a lot stronger than it was. That maybe, if Harry can feel what he's feeling, and, when he saw the attack on Mr. Weasley, maybe it works the other way too, and he can get into Harry's head. Maybe You-Know-Who doesn't know this yet, but he will, eventually. And, well, you and Harry have always been close, so maybe he can use that to his advantage. To hurt Harry. And you."
Her reasoning makes more sense in her own head. Professor Dumbledore smiles at her. It is wry, and tired, and entirely too different from the twinkling, indulgent smile that she is used to. She hates those indulgent smiles, doesn't she? So why, why, why, then, is she wishing for them now? Anything would be better than the way he is looking at her now, like she should know things.
"You are a very clever young lady, Hermione Granger." She looks down, heat suffusing her cheeks. She isn't looking for compliments. "Certainly, you understand the wisdom of keeping this exchange to yourself, for the time being?"
Harry surely blames himself for the attack. If he finds out that You-Know-Who can get into his head, he will think that he is putting the rest of them in danger just by being around them. He will perhaps try to leave, and he will only put himself at risk. She knows this because she would think the same thing, do the same thing. And the rage will build inside him, until it devours everything he used to be.
Yes, she understands. Not because she is clever, but because she is Harry's best friend.
She nods quietly.
"One more thing, sir."
Professor Dumbledore raises his eyebrows inquiringly.
"Is Harry... I mean, he isstill... himself, isn't he? It wasn't him who attacked Mr. Weasley. Because that's just... impossible." The guilt is hot in her stomach. She doesn't doubt Harry, she can never doubt Harry, but it has to be asked.
"Do you mean to ask if Harry has ever been under the direct influence of Lord Voldemort's mind?"
"No—I... I mean, yes, Professor."
"No, my dear. Harry Potter is still very much Harry Potter."
"But then, doesn't he have a right to know, eventually? To defend himself, if his mind is so susceptible to such—to such evil?"
To her left, Professor Snape clears his throat. The Headmaster gives her an apologetic smile.
"Ah, I'm afraid we have taken far too much of Professor Snape's time. As I was saying earlier, I am aware you had been planning to take the Hogwarts Express back to see your parents. You are welcome, however, to join the Weasleys and Mr. Potter at headquarters. I'm sure Sirius will be glad of your presence. Professor Snape is heading there right now on Order business, and he will gladly escort you if you choose to go."
She glances at him, his profile sharp in the bleak light of dawn.
"Oh, erm, do I have to leave now? I haven't packed..."
"Not to worry! Your trunk will be sent along shortly. It will be best for you to leave as soon as possible, as Dolores Umbridge has been made aware of students leaving the castle without her permission. She is watching the Floo Network, and the Ministry is watching for unauthorized Portkeys. You and Professor Snape can head to Hogsmeade to take the Knight Bus. I must confess, I am rather envious. I have always found the Knight Bus a most ingeniously convenient mode of transportation. Imagine, all one has to do is to stick out his wand arm..."
Winter washes him out, she thinks. Or maybe she just isn't accustomed to seeing him in sunlight. He is walking ahead of her, four, maybe five steps ahead, and she struggles to keep up with his pace. He hasn't said a word to her for the entire trip in the carriage from Hogwarts, except to bark at her to Move your legs, Miss Granger! when she took too long getting on. They reach the gates, and as soon as she steps past the winged boars, she can swear that the temperature drops ten degrees. She pulls her scarf up higher on her face. It is a frothy pink and pale blue concoction sent by her mother, and it smells of chestnuts.
He stalks off ahead of her, and with a twitch of his wrist his wand drops from his sleeve into his palm. He flings out his arm as if to cast a spell and—
BANG.
She leaps back in alarm, her heart thudding somewhere in the vicinity of her eardrums. The unabashedly purple bus materializes out of thin air, and the scent of petrol tints the cold wind around her. She furrows her brows, knowing that magical buses most certainly do not run on petrol.
Professor Snape is entirely unruffled. She takes a moment to collect herself before trudging up to stand next to him. She wonders if she should let him get on first, or if he is waiting for her to board. Would it be rude to just get on ahead of him? Or would he find it rude if she were to assume that he wasn't waiting for her to get on first because he doesn't really seem the type to ascribe to things as banal as manners?
Her dilemma is put on hold as a gangly boy not much older than she launches himself from the steps to stand in front of them. When he speaks, it is with a rehearsed enthusiasm that manifests itself in an ungainly swinging of too-long limbs.
"Welcome to the Knight Bus, I'm your cond—"
"That will be all, boy." Professor Snape sneers at him.
There is a moment of painful silence. The boy, deprived of the chance to complete the speech he probably recited to every single member of Wizarding Britain, looks utterly distraught.
One second.
Four.
Seven.
Professor Snape turns to look down his nose at her.
"It's a bus, Miss Granger. You get in and sit down, and it takes you to various locations."
Her eyes narrow at him from the scant bit of her face that is exposed to the cold. She is more incensed by his rudeness to the young conductor than by his sarcastic quip.
"I know what a bu—"
"Yes, yes, forgive me. I have quite forgotten the breadth of your knowledge. Are you getting in, then? I suppose it will take another five minutes for the correct message to get to the muscles of your legs from your brain."
"Not at all, Professor," she pushes out through gritted teeth.
So.
He was waiting for her to board. But he needn't be so... mean all the time.
She pulls down her scarf and gives the poor conductor a consoling smile as she walks past him, but she is sure that the combination of biting cold and indignation has made her smile seem more like a threatening leer.
She treads up the steps gingerly, keeping a firm hold on the handlebar. Stairs, along with the wet snow, can prove fatal to one as graceless as she. And she has no intention of giving her professor further ammunition. She hurries over to the back of the deserted bus, taking a seat in one of the assortment of mismatched chairs by the window. The smell of petrol is stronger here, but it is compensated for by the muggy warmth of an air-conditioning charm. She is certain that Professor Snape will remain close to the front, the sooner to get off.
She watches him as he exchanges a few words with the wizened driver and everything is strange. With the cotton-candy snow and the scent of petrol and her Potions professor's nose tipped in shiny red, everything is strange. Nothing earth-shattering or anything, just odd in a gently disconcerting kind of way. Like when you go to bed in your thick socks and somehow while you're sleeping one of them disappears, and you wonder, half-dreaming, why one foot is colder than the other. It is something a little bit like that.
It is strange to see Professor Snape standing there, with the purple-clad, pimply conductor looking thoroughly dejected behind him, with sunlight streaming in through grime-encrusted windows, with bits of snow in his hair and coat.
And she thinks: So this is what Professor Snape looks like in the sun. Grumpy and disheveled. Squinting. Pink-cheeked.
It is strange when he catches her eye, and exhales sharply, and stalks over to join her in the back of the bus. He doesn't sit down, opting to stand and keep a stiff grip on one of the hand straps hanging from a rail on the ceiling. He stands just behind her chair, his right boot just within her view.
And when the bus jolts forward with a bang and her chair falls over backward and she flings her limbs out and squeals in panic, it is even stranger that her chair stops mid-fall. And that its momentum is reversed, and it falls forward with a thud. And that, as she slumps backward to catch her breath, she feels sharp knuckles press into her back. Sharp, leather-encased knuckles wrapped around the back of her chair. And the strangest part is that he doesn't remove his hand for the rest of the trip. Doesn't even say a word. Not even if her chair is hurled backward with each successive bang. Not even if the heat of his hand seeps through the supple leather of his glove, through her three layers of wool, and sinks into the flesh of her back.
It's the smell that gets to most people. The harsh antiseptic burn that leaves your nasal cavity and your throat and your lungs feeling a little cleaner than they have ever been before. A sanitary, citrus-y odor that is there to mask the tang of blood, sweat, and other bodily fluids. But the smell of a hospital doesn't bother her.
For other people, it's the lights. Like the smell, it burns in your face. It is merciless white, and it's impossible to hide anything in its glare. But the lights don't really make her uncomfortable, either.
What bothers her about hospitals is the pace of everything. Everyone who works in a hospital is brutally efficient. She always thought that there is a certain inhumanity in that, in the rapid cycling of injuries, and diseases, and lives. In the shuttering out and the moving on.
St. Mungo's is no different from Muggle hospitals in that respect. The smell is more pleasant, the lights more mellow, but the same shrewd, whip-smart proficiency is evident in the brisk walk of the Healers and the crisp catalogue of injuries on the sign behind the Welcome Witch.
Mr. Weasley is deathly pale, but cheerful. He had shaken her hand profusely earlier. She had given him a present of her Mum and Dad's outdated orthodontic tools and they were enough to make him happy and she wishes they could be enough for her too, but they aren't.
A week earlier, she was worried about her Arithmancy homework, and the upcoming O.W.L.s, and knitting for more house-elves, and the D.A. And here is Mr. Weasley, recovering from a near-fatal snake bite, chuffed to bits because she had given him a palatal expander and a spare retainer.
She recalls Neville's mum, tortured into a grotesque similitude of life by Bellatrix Lestrange. Neville had been embarrassed when they accidentally found him and his grandmother visiting Frank and Alice Longbottom. She recalls the defiance in his usually mild-mannered face, as if to dare them to pity him, go on, pity poor Neville with the crazy parents.
She laughs distractedly at a joke Tonks cracks. Apparently, it was a good one. Ginny is wheezing next to her, and Fred is slapping his knee. Even Harry breaks into a slow grin. No one notices when her laughter sputters and dies.
Homework.
And O.W.L.s.
And knitting.
And her little pet project, the D.A.
It's Christmas, and the Dai Llewellyn Ward is bedecked in holly and ivy, but the guilt builds and builds until it clogs her throat and pushes behind her eyes.
The next time she sees him, it will have been eighteen days later.
His lips will be pressed tight, his knuckles white around his wand, his throat taut. Sirius will be breathing hard on the opposite side of the kitchen. Harry will be standing between the two of them, consternation in his face.
"Six o'clock Monday evening, Potter,*" Professor Snape will say sleekly.
When he leaves, the fabric of his coat will brush against her arm. It will be rough, and woolly, and so very black, and it will smell like smoke in winter. Like wet leaves burning in a low fire. Like rain falling on frozen earth, with dead bare branches slicing into a pale moon. When he leaves he will take the smell with him, and she will look down and shove her hands in her pockets.
A/N:
*Taken directly from canon.
So someone told me that British hospitals are nothing like how I described them here, so sorry! I can't change it though, because it really wouldn't work for my story if the hospital staff were nice and friendly and stopped to chat and the lights weren't as bright and they all found the whole experience to be generally agreeable. I needed a bit of drama in that scene so we're gonna stick with that.
Thanks for reading!
Oh, and reviews would be great, thanks!
