A/N: I put this up in a rush, so sorry for the errors (most were minor plot and have been fixed!) I felt the story was coming on slowly, hence the letter sequence. This might occur again sometime, so if you didn't like it let me know and I'll think of something else! Have a beautiful day, read and review :).
Thank you to all of my reviewers; your input keeps me motivated, and that means a lot with all I have going on. This is my hobby and I thank you for making me feel as if it is at least appreciated. Enjoy!
Chapter Eight
Free
Miss Granger,
I will be indisposed for an undetermined amount of time. Any correspondence to your parents or friends should be sent through secure channels. Professor Snape will see to their deliveries in my (hopefully brief) absence.
Mr. Weasley has passed on this letter from your parents; I believe it will answer the question you posed in your note.
Sincerely,
Albus P. W. B. Dumbledore
Dearest Hermione,
Mr. Weasley has just transformed a napkin into this parchment before my very eyes. Honestly, I know that you wizards and witches can perform much grander spells than that, but the existence of magic is still as confounding to me as it was six years ago... I admit it was quite awe-inspiring to witness. Your mother took it in stride, in that way that she does—she rolled her eyes at me when I flipped the page over to inspect it for blemishes (I am a creature of science, after all). Mr. Weasley, of course, is a fine wizard as you have said—inspect the parchment yourself: it is pristine as if it were crafted by hand, or perhaps more so. What mechanism of imagination is lent to the design of the parchment? Can you change the color... the texture...
Imagine my amusement when immediately after my bumbling awe, the wizard then began to carry on a conversation with your mother about the nature of "Nausea Gas" as if it were the most fascinating invention. Mrs. Weasley doesn't appear as interested in the subject, but Mr. Weasley seems captivated by every word coming out of your mother's mouth as I write this. Bless that man, he makes me feel like less of a fool about all of this wizarding stuff.
Anyway, your mother reminds me I have limited time to write this, considering we have no owl of our own (until you return a letter to us, at least). The Weasleys have kindly informed us of your last decision to remain at Hogwarts. While I know very much about "Nausea Gas", I know very little about potions or healing, so I can only imagine they are subjects that your brilliant mind is tackling beautifully—and with not simply a nurse, but the potions master to aid you? I daresay, daughter, you will be the most superb medical magical theorist, and how magnificent an opportunity for you, Hermione, and how noble a cause for your beautiful heart to lend your intelligence to the care of those less fortunate than you.
Of course, we would have urged you to accept had you had the time to consult us first. Fret not that you didn't. Growing up is futile, after all, and we can do very little to stop you from it. We trust you to make sound decisions that benefit your future and those around you. There has never been a doubt in our minds that you are, at the very least, devoted to your academic achievement and thus our ills to be without you are soothed (but only slightly; we do love you so dearly and miss you every moment).
I could go on forever about how proud I am and how proud your mother is, but, unfortunately, Mr. Weasley's accelerated lesson in anesthesia and the remaining length of napkin-parchment are at their ends (as well as Mrs. Weasley's patience, by the looks of it). Whenever you receive this letter, know that we are thinking of you, and that your mother and I remain supportive of your academic endeavors, magical and ordinary.
Write us often, and visit if you are able to spare us the time.
Be good,
Dad
Hermione,
It's barely been a day since end of term. I hate it here, but I know you're having a worse time than I am. While I know you said you'll be getting better in no time, I'm not convinced. I've been in far worse shape and nobody's kept me back for summer. While you are definitely the smartest person I've ever met, you sometimes forget that I am not as much of an idiot as I seem to be.
So unless you're nutters and wanted to stay to study (it wouldn't surprise me), then something is up and I want to know what's going on. I want to help. Remember my promise (I will find a way). If not, then if you've already started the homework, I need help with my Cheering Charms essay. It's been so boring here that I've already started. What a miserable summer already, right?
Anyway, get well soon and I will hopefully see you at the Burrow (I hope I get there ASAP *please, Merlin*!)
Love,
Harry
PS – I just remembered that I never finished my History OWL, what with all that happened… do you think I've flunked it?
Mum and Dad,
I am so relieved that you are not angry with me. It means everything to me that both of you support my decision, regardless of how instinctively I chose to make it without you. As you inferred, the opportunity presented itself so suddenly and was so lucrative that I found myself being barely hesitant to accept it. Hence, here we are, me still at Hogwarts and you both, comfortably, in London. Not to say that I'm not comfortable: it is quite the opposite… I just miss Home with you. It seems like yesterday life was so simple. My world was so small and tiny and now it seems like it is infinitely large and unmanageable. It definitely correlates with my distance from you both, or perhaps it is simply a fact of growing up.
It has been months since I've seen you and I felt so guilty when I realized that staying would limit the scarce time I have to spend at home. It was only after the train had left that I realized that I had forgotten to relay the news to you both, but I was so overwhelmed with excitement and nervousness. Not to mention, this year has just been so taxing with OWLs and the fact that our newest and ministry-appointed defense teacher (who resigned, thank Merlin!) was sorely incompetent, as I predicted she would be. We've been teaching ourselves what we would need to know to succeed in the subject, considering the only thing she was good for was getting my (and Harry's, of course) blood to boil. After the tragedy of last year, we've all been slightly tense and she only added to it. While you would tell me that worrying won't change my scores, I am eager to know whether or not our valiant efforts have improved my OWL scores in the subject. Cross your fingers, Mum-it only works when you do it, so I'll know if you haven't.
It's rather exciting, however, to be done with this year. OWLs are extremely important to the wizarding world as they are critical for acceptance into the NEWT level courses which determine a witch's eligibility for particular jobs. To have been given this opportunity, my teachers must have had confidence in my abilities, considering I have not yet received any official scores. I am truly grateful to them, and I hope one day that I will be able to repay them. Some more than others, as I feel as if in some ways I owe them my life as well as my privilege.
My internship, for lack of a better term, will not only look good on a resume, but will be valuable to my future as it is a skill that is vastly appreciated and needed by our community. While I had expressed interest mostly in conducting research in magical theory or practicing magical law, I had also an interest in healing. These all came up in discussion during a session with my head of house (it was very similar to a career aptitude consultation) in which Professor McGonagall explained that while it was good to be broad, my talents would be wasted upon magical law and drained in thery. I disagreed with her; I am, as you know, passionate about the natural rights of magical beings and it is a dream of mine to one day protect those rights and I am, as you have said, a scientific creature, just like my father. Research is sorely need in this society, which is half-dark ages, still. As of now, however, I can do very little to influence such things, and research into magical theory requires multiple magical masters. My head of house, thus, suggested that I survey healing in the next two years of schooling, as it encompasses multiple magical disciplines. I've signed up for the courses needed for all, of course, but had not expected to delving so deeply into the subject so soon.
Imagine my surprise when my head of house approached me with an opportunity to actually study healing (sort of)! Professor McGonagall had spoken personally to the school nurse that I would make an excellent candidate as a pseudo-apprentice. While healing studies are typically only begun after NEWT exams, Madam Pomfrey, the school's matron (the magical equivalent of a nurse practitioner, although in the wizarding world this is synonymous with the term mediwitch), suggested the arrangement that I have now agreed to. She has permitted me to shadow her, as well as assist with minor healing procedures, diagnostics, and prognosis. So far, it's all been very exciting: lots of sampling of potions and some minor discussions about trauma assessment and rare magical illnesses such as Magical Burning. There are no students to heal, and thus she can focus on my pre-training, as I would have to do this anyway proceeding my acceptance into a program.
Not only will I be surveying healing, but I will be able to research (truly, a dream come true) and tutor beneath the potions master. This is exciting, but it is alo going to be difficult for me, as you know Potions is an area of weakness in my studies. While, admittedly, I am poorer at Defense, my lowest marks have always been received in brewing. Obviously, this fact is due to the strange inability for teachers to hold the Defense position and the penchant that they are incompetent teachers as well as easy graders, and should not reflect negatively upon Professor Snape's strict teaching style, as he grades fairly in my opinion. I am rather untalented with my hands, as you remember I cannot draw or play music even though Mémé forced all those instruments into my hands whenever we would visit, and the potions master does not care for my verbose essays. I have always had trouble just getting to the point, after all... it is not different now than it was in primary school.
And thus, back to the point, now that I've been reminded of my fault. Potions are, of course, integral to healing (many are medicines and some are poisons, which, of course, a healer must be able to diagnose and prescribe the antitode to). The subject must be learned properly and thoroughly if I am ever to truly consider the medical field. Professor Snape has graciously agreed to supplement my previous failures with private tutoring. I doubt I will have time at all to visit considering his penchant for requiring excellence in his students (especially since he is forfeiting his own holiday to assist in my endeavor), but I do so hope there will be at least one opportunity where I can see you both.
Once again, while I know you aren't worried about my transgression, I am sorry for having wasted your time with my forgetfulness. I know you would have much rather been enjoying your free day doing something more productive than explaining Laughing Gas to Mr. Weasley, or at the very least would rather be bothered with my company as I would be with yours. Perhaps, one day, we can entertain Mr. Weasley together with a tour of the office—In return, I'm sure he would transfigure you a pristine set of napkin stationary, although it might not hold forever. Unfortunately, transfiguration is not always permanent and the texture of the letter you had passed on to me has begun to latch, and truly is now a napkin-parchment.
To be honest, magic is still all rather fascinating to me, as well. I don't think I will ever become completely used to it. Thank Merlin for men like Mr. Weasley, who find no fault at all in such a notion.
Love,
Hermione
Dear Harry,
I told you that I'm fine and I will speak no more of my health to you, as it is no concern of anyone's.
Since you've insisted, however, I have been researching under Professor Snape—don't make that face that I know you are making! He's a professor, Harry Potter. You figured out years ago that I was mad, after all, so it shouldn't be a surprise that I am actually enjoying learning from him. While you are the bravest person I have ever met, I am not as convinced that he isn't at least, somewhat, noble. He is an Order member, Harry, and Dumbledore trusts him. I trust him, too… doesn't that mean something to you? I'm not going to say you should always listen to me, but it does hurt me knowing that my opinion isn't valued by my best friend.
I have decided to remain at Hogwarts for the entirety summer so it's unlikely that you will see me until term begins, unless I can escape to Diagon Alley for an afternoon. This is not because of an illness, but due to the fact that Madam Pomfrey has offered to train me in minor healing. This includes Potions work, so yes, I will have to spend more time tutoring under Professor Snape. This tutoring might even extend into next year (stop making that face, Harry James!)
It's a worthy sacrifice to make as it will benefit not only me, but also our friends, classmates, and the Order. After all, one of three of us needs to learn how to heal the others, considering how outlandishly "accident-prone" we each are (it's not going to be Ron—Charms are not his best suit) and you hardly have the time considering that you said Dumbledore has plans for you next term. I hope he's going to teach you Occlumency, at the very least.
I know that the future is uncertain, but we've become quite entangled in the war recently… the least I can do is learn something useful. I will learn as much as I can to protect you and Ron, Harry. I owe you that for the friendship you have given me.
Sorry for being maudlin,
Hermione
P.S. – Please don't mention the OWLs! I didn't get to check my answers with all of the commotion and now I'm worried that I've flunked History of Magic, as well. Oh, now I won't be able to stop thinking about it. Circe help us.
It had been two days since her first visit with Professor Snape and he had not yet summoned her. Hermione had not relented from quieting her mind since the night she had first had a taste of it until she felt comfortable doing so on a whim. Throughout the forty-eight hours that had passed, she had alternated between reading the books he had given her, practicing "quiet-time", and writing and reading various letters.
It was mid-morning, however, and she was enjoying some light reading for her own enjoyment. Well, slightly her own enjoyment—it was Advanced Magical Theory: Mastery edition, which she had picked up from the library after finishing the precious few that Professor Snape had graced her with.
"Miss Granger."
Hermione merely grunted in response to the nurse's greeting. Her eyes shifted over the page as far as they could to appear attentive; considering her nose was half a centimeter away, it was difficult for her to keep both the passage and the nurse in her line of sight. When she continued to keep her eyes directed towards the page and only narrowly turned her chin in the general direction of her caretaker, the nurse very impatiently cleared her throat…
Hermione answered without truly registering that she had even spoken aloud, "Yes, Madam Pomfrey?"
Her eyes remained on the page.
"Miss Granger, you have a visitor."
The young witch waved her hand dismissively to send them away. She did not immediately consider the preposterousness of such a statement (honestly, a visitor?), hence, she reacted as she would for anyone who interrupted her during her favorite pass-time; with pompous indifference. She did not indulge in many things, but when she was immersed in a book she asked only that her friends leave her be until she was finished.
Ronald hadn't quite caught on yet, despite five years of friendship—and Harry only interrupted her when it was important (or at least, what he thought was important). She couldn't fault Madam Pomfrey or her mysterious visitor for not knowing about her preferences; it was out of politeness that she was not, in fact, more impolite than she typically would have been anyone else bold enough to proverbially step between her and a book.
It was only when she felt a weight pounce onto the bed beside her that she tore her gaze from the precious pages, her mouth open to protest and her eyes narrowed in distaste. It was only half a moment when she realized who or rather what had landed there beside her. By the the familiar musky smell that often followed him after prowling through abandoned corridors and the instinctual warmth that bridled within her belly when he was near, it could only be Crookshanks, her snub-faced half-kneazle familiar.
The bright orange blob of color in the corners of her vision solidified her suspicions and she gasped in delight, the book very easily forgotten to greet him with open arms.
Hermione twisted and threw both arms out from beneath the throw she had been squirreled beneath since she had awoken to grasp at the feline body with a hearty half-sob.
"I usually do not allow pets within the infirmary, but considering your eminent release, it would be quite redundant to refuse him, after all the racket he made in the corridor," the nurse mused with a slight tone of irritation in the background, "He is yours, of course, that is quite plain from your reaction."
The young witch did not chastise the nurse for her veiled contempt towards her familiar, but rather swooned towards the half-kneazle. Crookshanks was currently straining against her embrace, mewling in distaste as she swiped her fingers over the wiry hair of his neck and back.
"Where have you been?"
He meowed loudly in response and squeezed out of her grip. Orange eyes glared at her warily from a slightly more golden face until she lifted her hands in defeat; he prowled in front of her until she scowled in silent promise to not bother him with fretful caresses.
Despite this, she continued to chastise him, jabbing a finger in his direction and frowning pointedly, "No doubt you've been eating your fill now that all the other cats have gone, you naughty boy."
Crookshanks seemed pleased with himself when she said that, lifting his paw indignantly to dab at her unwanted hand, and her eyes narrowed further.
"Here I am, wasting away in the infirmary, and you're off chasing vermin and having the time of your nine lives—how convenient for you!"
The witch crossed her arms and looked at him down the length of her nose in disappointment. He made a low hissing sound and accused her with his wise, offended orange eyes, you haven't been there to feed me, now have you? Was I supposed to laze around beside you all day?
Hermione huffed, "It wasn't my fault I nearly died and have been stuck here for days." The nurse muttered loudly, but the young witch ignored her, "You knew exactly where to find me, didn't you? By all means, don't feign disappointment on my account, sir—I've been perfectly fine without you."
Crookshanks merely stared at her as if to say of course I knew where you were, I will not apologize for being pleased with this arrangement, and if you truly needed me, I would have been there, and then he cocked his head as if he were contemplating whether or not she was truly displeased with him. Eventually, when she did not break his gaze, her face softened and he finally relented. The warm, animal body brushed his towards her forcefully, swiping his fur across her arms, as if willing her strength she hadn't known she was lacking.
Although they had been apart for many days, he promptly padded around her and settled near the head of the bed like he owned it in the first place. He circled the emerald throw, sniffing it indignantly, until at last he claimed it as his.
Once he was completely settled, Hermione glanced with uncertainty at the mediwitch who remained leery of his presence. She was pursed of lip and crossed of arm. Although pouting was beneath Hermione, something in the young Gryffindor's face must have hinted at her disappointment to be without the company of the cat.
The mediwitch merely waved her wand over the surrounding beds to repel them from being covered in his fur and huffed.
"I trust he will behave himself?" Madam Pomfrey asked of her patient, her eyes upon the half-kneazle rather than on his master. Crookshanks merely stared at her and then returned to licking his paw, indifferent to whether or not his presence was welcomed.
Hermione answered for him, "If he is as smart as I know he is, he will know better than to try your patience, Madam Pomfrey. I assure you, he is a perfect gentleman."
The nurse smiled at her gently, "As gentile as any cat could be, my dear…"
"It won't be much longer, will it, anyway?" Hermione asked tentatively, "We'll both be out of your hair in an hour?"
The nurse made a pensive face before answering, "We shall see after your diagnostic; it will be ineffective for another hour or so, however, so I suggest you sit tight and remain patient."
Hermione knew it was wise to be cautious, but she ached for the comfort of Gryffindor Tower—the burning fire of the Common Room and her four poster bed. The glossy windows paned with stained glass in the figures of red and yellow flowers and the painted lions of her house. The burning embers of the fireplace no matter the season and the plush armchairs that always seemed to feel softer than any other.
She missed her trunk and her bathroom—Madam Pomfrey could only summon so much for her and she refused to call on the elves to retrieve them. While the nurse was companionable, Hermione was not, by nature, a very social creature. She had no siblings and the thought of sharing a room (even if it was the size of a wing) was as comforting for as sharing a form with four girls who had less in common with her than she had with Professor Snape.
That was not to say that she did not miss her friends. It was quite the opposite. She couldn't have them for months yet… but their spirits were stronger in the Tower than the hospital wing. Well, not by much, Hermione realized with a wry smile to herself. The trio spent nearly as much time in the hospital wing as they did in their own common room (hence her excuse to Harry), each taking turns visiting and being the visited.
If she did get her magic back, it wouldn't be a bad idea at all to truly shadow Madam Pomfrey. It might prove useful one day to know a bit about healing.
"There is no rush," she added towards the nurse, hoping she hadn't offended her with her haste for privacy, and wondering if perhaps it would be a good idea to remain in the wing, after all.
"Certainly not," the nurse said with a wise smile, but something in her eyes made the young witch doubtful, "Although I hope, eventually, that this will all seem like a distant memory for you, I can agree that it can be overwhelming to be monitored day in and day out, especially considering your physical wounds are tended to."
Silence settled upon them; instead of returning to her book, Hermione looked over the lingering nurse, who had paused to open the pair of curtains that were fluttering defiantly across the wing.
The young patient admitted that Pomfrey looked a bit more out of sorts than usual. She cocked her head to the side, not unlike her familiar had towards her minutes before, and noticed that the sleeves of the nurse's robes were rolled up to the elbow, as well as the fact that her face was reddened and her fingers were dirtied. The apron she wore was stained and considering the woman was the neatest Hermione had ever met, even the smallest of stains seemed out of place upon her typically pristine white and gray striped uniform.
"Potions brewing?" Hermione asked, after deducing it was the only thing that could have kept her from scourging them immediately away. Potions was a demanding art, after all.
The nurse nodded affirmative and, her eyes following the Gryffindor's, hastily cleaned her apron and set her hat, hair, and sleeves to rights, "The stores are sorely depleted, I fear, after… well, it has been even more of a tumultuous year than usual."
Hermione nodded abashedly, "That's partly my fault, I suppose."
"Oh?"
She flushed and shifted nervously, "I might have… encouraged rebellion in the students, or at least looked the other way when I knew I shouldn't have."
The older witch looked bemused, "Perhaps it was necessary for you to remain uninvolved, considering the consequences of misbehavior under that woman. No matter—it is no one's fault but that dreadful witch's, if you can ask me. I can't say I agree with your methods of disposing of the toad—"
Hermione winced… she had worried that the event would be too traumatizing for Umbridge. Centaurs were not known for their… restraint, when it came to intruders upon their land. Remembering Harry's ruined hand and her own, however, the vengeance didn't seem sweet enough it was enough to send her shoving all thoughts of the woman away.
"—but I do agree that whatever was needed to keep her from ever setting foot in my wing again was worth it. I know the rest of the staff would agree."
She tried not to think about what could have happened to Umbridge—at the hand of centaur or giant. It seemed necessary at the time, but had the witch died, would she feel the same? She certainly had been damaged—centaurs were not known for their gentleness, especially where it concerned mouthy, female humans…
That's a question better left unanswered, Hermione Jean, if you want your conscience to remain unscarred.
Perhaps it was too late, as her stomached churned uneasily at the thought.
"Wouldn't Professor Snape typically make the medical potions for Hogwarts?" Hermione asked, wanting to change the subject immensely.
The nurse averted her eyes and stiffened, "I have not had the chance to speak privately to Severus about it."
Hermione was quiet then—should she tell the nurse what she had seen of Him? Should she divulge that she did not buy into the façade he had woven, as she was beginning to think the nurse did not either?
Not yet, a small voice urged. Not before she could hide any conversation she might have with the nurse about him in the depths of her mind. If he knew she was speaking about him, he would be displeased, as he was a considerably private person, as the nurse had noted.
She glanced towards the door hesitantly. He had made it a habit for her to, whenever her thoughts strayed to him, check for his presence.
"I'm certain he would happily brew them," Hermione noted when she was satisfied he would not storm into the wing from the empty corner or through the closed door that led to the second floor corridor, "But perhaps… perhaps some time soon, I could help you brew instead, if he finds himself overwhelmed."
The nurse seemed to consider it for a long moment.
Hermione interjected, "If, of course, Professor Snape gives his leave for me to do so. Perhaps it will make his life easier… and yours, too, of course; if there were three of us contributing to the school's deficient stock, perhaps we would not run out so quickly."
"There's quite a few things that man could do to make his and my life easier, if only he'd listen to me," she seemed ruffled, and then politely concluded, "Let us leave it up to the potions master, lest he claim we are conspiring against him."
Hermione grinned at the nurse, who cracked a smile in return.
"Well, I've left some burn pastes in stasis and I will be quite cross if they've gone bad considering all the work I've put into them," the nurse wiped her forehead with her sleeve, and decided to move on from their shared concern through some good old fashioned hard work, "You will shout if you need me."
It was a command, not a question. In but a handful of moments, she was the stern nurse once more, all prim shoulders and a strict expression. She nodded to Hermione, glared at Crooks who returned the look with an equally poisonous stare, then turned on her heel and headed to the opposite end of the wing.
When the nurse was gone completely, Crookshanks met her eye as if to scorn her.
She quirked a brow at him, "What?"
He flicked his tail as if to say silly humans.
She huffed, "I can't concentrate if you're glaring at me. Go on, turn 'round."
His orange eyes glinted towards her, but then he returned to preening his fur lazily and basking in the sunlight.
After a time, she snapped the book beneath her shut and sat up. Crookshanks could be heard purring in the background. As she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, she could feel her heartbeat thrum in tune with each feline vibration, and concentrated on dulling both the sensation of breathing and all the other corporeal reminders of her existence, until the nurse would relay her verdict to release her.
Meanwhile, in the dungeons, Severus' pinched his nose in frustration and stood from where he had perched over his desk for the past hour, pondering drowning his hunger with a nap instead of with nutrients. The thought of closing his eyes was both equally disconcerting and desirable, but his legs groaned in protest when he shifted his hips. They were badly in need of stretching, as were the rest of the muscles in his aging body. Thus, he left his office without a second thought for the cool, silky sheets and the shimmering reflected light of the Black lake of his private rooms.
When was the last time he had gone farther than the loo? He'd managed a shower (necessary for him, considering the self-prescribed treatments he applied religiously to his Cursed flesh in the soaps he brewed himself) in the past twenty-four hours, but had done little else except for research, Occlude, and (briefly) nod off at his desk. Not only was time-frame of his invitation with the dark lord fast approaching, but he was naturally on edge considering the castle's lack of headmaster for the past two days.
Although there was no one to pry within, he knew better than to underestimate the nosiness of a Gryffindor, let alone the one Gryffindor who remained at Hogwarts, and so he warded his office, and winced when he felt them stitch together more forcefully than normal. The pressure of magic pounded at his cranium like an anvil, leading him to pause and massage it before beginning his trek to scavenge for a meal.
With both Headmaster and Deputy Headmistress gone, and no other Head to share in the responsibility of the castle, Severus was burdened fivefold with Hogwarts' ancient magic, from whose cornerstone he called upon to protect his office (so as to not spare his own magic to do so). As the bearer of the Sigil of Slytherin (a heavy silver ring emblazoned with the characteristic serpent) and thus protector of the castle and the students who studied there, he was tethered to the castle's structural enchantments by the crudely crafted jewelry. Typically, it never weighed very heavily on his conscious mind, but today and the past few days in generally, the ring felt like it weighed stones rather than mere fractions of ounces.
Although he wasn't exactly certain how, due to the Founder's Magic Severus was aware that there were a handful of people (himself, Argus, Poppy, Miss Granger), a variety of creatures (elves and owls and others), and several spirits (and one obnoxious poltergeist) occupying the halls, that the castle was a shifting spirit (staircases revolving, portraits changing frames, etc), and that no fires burned in any of the Common Room hearths (signaling the absence of its students), except for Gryffindor Tower's. The castle was mostly throbbing near the Great Hall—or the kitchens, it wasn't exactly a precise science—which meant the house elves were busying themselves with lunch, despite having little to no one to serve.
It was more difficult to admit, but the castle also simply felt strange without Albus, who would typically force Severus to dine with him during a summer afternoon such as this, when Severus would have forgotten to eat. Sometimes, Severus felt he did not belong at Hogwarts without the headmaster, who although they disagreed, had been the one person to, at the very least, provide him the benefit of the doubt (save Minerva). The headmaster was, after all, the only one who justified his position, despite his dark past and present, and was fully aware of his true loyalties. After all was said and done, if the headmaster were not there, would anyone else vouch for his honor? The castle might have, having known him well enough to trust him with the Sigil in the first place, but it was not a person whose testimony could spare him the heartaches of Azkaban (hypothetically speaking, considering he had no hope that he would survive the war at all).
He scowled at the thought of a trial (he had been spared one previously, but did not think he would be again considering the depth of his involvement in the affairs of the more recent war)… the staff would be more than willing to let him burn for his being unwilling to coddle the brats or his refusal to stroke his colleague's enormous egos. The students would relight the flame until he was nothing but a smoking crisp… and he knew from surveying their minds that he was at the top of several student's lists of "most hated" creatures on earth.
Perhaps not all the students would, he bemoaned. Draco would at least be disappointed. And… well, Miss Granger was always willing to put herself in danger for some cause or another. When he died, he had no doubt she would defend him even if it meant her own ostracism… out of "repayment" for his assistance.
Stupid girl, he thought. She would be better off letting him succumb to notoriety as the Death Eater spy than waste away trying to use her pitiful dependency upon him as an example of his courageous nature.
His actions were not just charitable, but strategic as well. The Order needed Potter, Potter needed Granger, and thus, Miss Granger needed to be trained to protect herself without magic. If—when she was able to retrieve it, she would be all the better for having done so. Teaching her served Potter, and by proxy, the Order, and further on, himself… if she were protected, then so were his secrets (and Potter's life), and that was the true goal of any Master, was it not?
Unless it truly was hopeless to even try, he was reminded. His mother was an example of what lack of magic did to a witch. Hermione Granger would no doubt suffer the same fate. It was equally as unlikely that she would revive her magic as it was that he would one day be elected Minister for Magic.
And I could care less whichever way, he growled to himself, the war will be won without her. The key is bloody Potter, not insufferable Granger.
Lie to yourself any further, Severus, a voice chastised, and you might turn into the Old Goat himself.
A derisive snort was all that followed—hell would freeze over before he followed in the footsteps of Albus Dumbledore.
Potter would fail without her. It was his job to ensure that the boy succeeded, hence he would help her. Dumbledore had come to that conclusion, as well, or he would not have asked this of him. At least, Severus did not think he would have. The girl, after all, would hardly be a priority to the headmaster if she did not in some way contribute to whatever grand scheme he had cooked up in his barmy head.
He paused at the foot of the entrance hall staircase, his ears pricked for noise—there were voices in the Great Hall. When he swirled within, his hand half-poised for his wand, he found that the two witches of the castle were partaking in their own meal at the Head Table. Their presence had been masked by the energy of the kitchens, located directly beneath them.
His nerves were instantly eased, but he did not dare let his posture slacken and steeled them both with a glare.
Miss Granger held his eyes for a moment, before looking down at her plate. The nurse, however, flushed for a moment, floundering for a greeting, before she decided against one and looked guiltily down at her food.
She had not forgotten what she had seen, after all, he realized, and scowled to himself to realize that there was still that to deal with. She would not avoid him forever—perhaps not even for a handful of minutes. Once Madam Pomfrey sniffed out an injury, she would poke at it until he relented it to be healed.
Too bad for her, he noted, that I have no plans to heal it.
As if she had sensed his malicious thoughts, she met his eyes defiantly once more, daring him to leave the Great Hall like a coward. Miss Granger's honey gaze followed her gray-green, until they were both nodding at him politely when he swept forward. He had not donned his teaching robes—he wasn't, after all, teaching, was he?—and thus the movement was not as dramatic as it would have been. The frock coat remained, a constant comfort to him, which also lent his strict demeanor the demure poise that he purposefully commanded.
"Severus," the nurse greeted.
"Madam," he sneered, and then sent his gaze sidelong to the girl, who was deathly quiet, despite appearing fairly well. Her skin, at the least, wasn't as pallid and she was seemingly in good spirits when he had entered.
"Miss Granger," he added as a half-thought.
The girl automatically responded, "How are you, Professor?"
Severus scowled and ascended the dais—he had learned long ago how to eat quickly, especially when Minerva was in a mood, and managed a sour answer, "Fantastic."
The girl made a frown, but it was not reserved for him. She appeared to be contemplating something instead of looking at him, however.
The nurse narrowed her eyes at him, looking him over for injuries.
Gods, he groaned inwardly, resisting the urge to press the bridge of his nose as he sat forcefully in a seat a good distance away from the two witches. He tapped his knife against the empty plate in front of him, and it promptly filled with his typical afternoon meal.
The migraine that was brewing there had not been relieved by potion, but it was slightly eased as soon as he took a hearty bite. His back had been enflamed since Bellatrix's careful treatment of it and today of all days it was burning true, drawing strength from the migraine, his lack of sleep. Rather than being dulled by the pain in his head, his back seemed to be vibrating with the same energy of the castle, which in turn was feeding off of his anxiety.
It was a vicious cycle and if only he could escape it… but alas, Albus had entrusted the castle to him, as well as the chit's life.
The witches, thankfully, ignored his biting remarks, and instead waited patiently for their own meal to appear, chattering amongst themselves and ignoring him.
"I merely want the natural rights of intelligent magical creatures to be recognized," Hermione began to object to no one in particular—certainly not him, he thought, sending a sidelong glare in her direction. She wasn't cheeky enough, not like Potter, to speak to him so indirectly; her attention was spared for the nurse only, as if she had decided to ignore his presence entirely. Apparently, she returned to the conversation she had been participating in recently.
A twinge of something he did not recognize resounded, but he swatted it away. He preferred being ignored, anyhow. He knew how to submerge in the shadows, and it was quite comfortable there.
Casual conversation with Gryffindor brats and meddlesome nurses was rather uncomfortable, he realized. Curse it all, he was still an awkward bastard underneath it all—socially inept and unwanted. He stabbed a potato, and pretended not to be listening to them, instead conjuring a book to read as he took a swig of drink.
"Your heart is in the right place," the nurse began to say, "But I fear it is a hopeless cause. The elves enjoy what they do even if they are sometimes forced to do it."
"I'm certain not all of them enjoy it, although many of them, especially at Hogwarts, do—and of course, they are treated with respect here," Hermione said, chewing her lip, "I understand now that most would choose the circumstances that they now have, but they deserve the right to make that choice. They are sentient creatures, whose rights should not be imposed upon simply because wizards feel a sense of superiority to them."
"Of course, you are right, Miss Granger," the nurse mused, then gasped in delight when an array of food appeared in front of her. Severus paused when he caught the distinct smell of vinegar, fatty oil, and fish. His mouth instantly watered as he recalled the one time Lily had treated him to the meal in their childhood…
The pang that followed had him slamming his knife and fork down. His head throbbed against his eyes and he sucked in a breath.
The nurse harrumphed slightly at his rudeness. He sneered at her, dabbed his face, and realized that Miss Granger was watching him with a peculiar expression. She was trying to control it, and although it was not effective, it was a step up from letting him see the pity play out on her face as it typically did.
Practice makes perfect, witchling, he vowed towards her inwardly.
"Severus—" The nurse began.
He shot her a dark look and gritted his teeth, "I have said nothing."
"I merely meant to inquire if you are well," the nurse mooned, "It is typical for those dining at the same table to carry conversations with one another, and we have not seen you show your face in days."
Severus felt his temper boil—he had to suffer their presence the entire summer, the least they could do was spare him some silence while he ate, until he could excuse himself properly.
She continued when he ignored her, "You're eating today, at least—"
"I was not aware that my eating habits were a subject of concern."
"It is my duty to—"
"To tend to the students of Hogwarts," he continued calmly, "nowhere in your contract does it state that you are legally obligated to harass staff or faculty."
The nurse made a strangled sound of frustration, "It is sheer stupidity to refuse the help of a trained professional. I am merely offering advice, Severus…"
"I assure you, Madam," he insisted with a sneer, "if your advice was desired, I would seek it. I am not an imbecile—I have provided for myself for thirty-six years without your stock in my well-being."
She was blissfully quiet then, although her face was screwed into an expression torn between guilt and pity. If there was anything Severus hated more, it was people feeling pitiful for him. He had suffered enough of that as a child, from people who had did nothing to prevent it. Just like the neighbors and the distant family members, Poppy Pomfrey had done little to nothing to spare him when he was helpless and truly pitiful.
Now, he was strong and capable and he would have none of it from anyone.
He was opening his mouth to say something, when the girl, Miss Granger, abruptly changed the subject, "I've been cleared for Gryffindor Tower, Professor Snape."
His eyes snapped to hers, glowering for having interrupted him, "Congratulations, Miss Granger… you'll now have to trek seven flights of stairs to the dungeons instead of two."
She nodded, "I do it throughout the year, anyway. I enjoy the exercise… but the point I was going to make, sir, was that I had hoped to ask your permission to do something, now that my physical injuries are, at this point, mended."
He waited for her continue, choosing to spare the time to tear into his steak (politely, with his mouth closed, but viciously nonetheless).
"Well, I was reading the books you gave me," she began, lifting her hand as if to motion the opening of a book, as if it were necessary to convey her point, "And Professor Dumbledore returned a letter to me from my parents explaining to them that I was training under you and Madam Pomfrey—"
"Typical," the potions master muttered around the meat.
Miss Granger continued without a beat, "—and I was thinking, it might not be a bad idea."
"Oh, no, it might not," he said dryly, "if you were in control of your magic, which you are not."
She sucked in a breath, then expelled it—commanding control of her emotions, which was more than he expected out of Potter, but less than he expected of a student of his own house, "Sir, that is very true; however, if I cannot assist in healing charms, the least I can do is help Madam Pomfrey brew potions. It might be helpful with… with the war to come, but also... might it help my affliction?"
Severus quirked a skeptical brow at her.
She motioned towards the invisible book she had drawn open again, "The text, Advanced Magical Theory, it had very little to say about my... condition, but it did say that magic is stronger when it is well-practiced. If I am to ever grow stronger, I must not grow idle in practice. Potions brewing may be the perfect outlet, because..."
She trailed off, made a flushing expression... she had caught herself, he realized, in a habit she had not broken since all the time he had known her. Rather than continue to be mollified, she straightened, poised, in a way that made him slightly uncomfortable, as not only did her posture remind him of his mother, but it made him see her as more of a woman than a child.
Her amber eyes were dark and slightly downcast, looking more at his neck than his eyes, "Well, you would understand why. You are a Master in the content."
"Quite," he offered in reply. She returned her eyes to his and he held them only briefly, before choosing to contemplate the wall behind her bushy head.
As the potions master reflected upon the matter, his sour mood slightly lightened, as it often did when his brain was working. All of his thoughts wrapped around the possibilities that Miss Granger's request could lead to.
The witch had a logical argument, although it could undoubtedly be potentially be dangerous for her. She would need to, at the very least, be able to visualize her magic first.
While potions was not necessarily the same as transfiguration or charms, it did require magic to concoct—not much, but enough that it could be difficult for her, and enough that it could also serve as the perfect outlet of therapy to lead her to command her power completely once more.
"Just because your physical injuries are completely healed, Miss Granger," the potions master began, as gently as he was able, which still seemed particularly coarse, "it does not mean you are ready for even the slightest expulsion of magic. Any—any magic you use could mean life or death, do you understand?"
The witch looked pensive, then slightly mollified once more. Her expression was deflated, as if she knew he would refuse her.
How lucky for her that his patience was not completely worn through.
He insisted towards her, his hands cutting a curving wave in the air, "When you can visualize your magic, you may assist in potions brewing for the school."
The girl snapped up, her honey eyes to his, "Truly?"
He sneered, "Perhaps I should correct myself: if you can visualize your magic, you may assist. If being dependent on how well you have been practicing your Occlumency."
The nurse spared him a strange look, watching him very closely in a way that made him slightly uncomfortable. Having suffered their presence enough, he stood from the table, but not before Vanishing the remainder of his food away, to spare the elf who had provided it from feeling dishonored.
"You will have the chance to prove yourself this afternoon, Miss Granger. If you do not meet my expectations, there will be consequences."
He was turned slightly away from her, but he could still see her clearly from the way his face was tilted. Her eyes were on him so intensely, he was forced to look directly into them. The experienced Legilimens refrained from plucking at her stray thoughts, but it only took a keen eye to notice the glint of steel that spoke of calm, honed determination. Her lips, rosy-red yet thinner than was typically beautiful, were pressed firmly together and her chin jutted out stubbornly in that way that it did when she was thinking very hard about something.
He knew she would, at the very least, aim to impress. While he had no doubt she would not surprise him (she was ill-equipped for magic, after all,) he would not be fooled into thinking she would not meet his expectations in due time.
Time would tell whether she would surpass them.
"Perhaps you should stay a few more days… at least until the headmaster himself can decide. Severus did have a point. With all these stairs... you'll exhaust yourself."
"Am I a hazard to myself?" The girl inquired.
"Well, no…"
She gestured towards her chest, drawing a line over the scar that was obscured by the thick jumper she wore, "Is my torso completely curse free?"
"Yes."
"Am I in pain?"
The nurse lifted a brow.
Hermione shook her head in response—she wasn't, exactly, in pain. She was freezing cold, but that could not be helped.
"Then you don't have to suffer my clutter, chatter, and cat any further," Hermione said with a smile, "Don't worry, Madam Pomfrey, I will, of course, have to visit often, and I have this—" she lifted the spare Protean coin; the other had been given to the nurse. If she needed assistance, she would send her a message with it and the nurse would send for Professor Snape, "—for emergencies."
And there was always the Floo, of course.
"That you will and do, dear."
The young witch looked towards her familiar, who was waiting impatiently at the entrance of the wing, then back to the nurse. She flung her arms around her.
The nurse made a surprised face, then nodded and relented into the embrace, "All things will pass."
They would, eventually, or so Hermione could hope. For now, she was glad to be returning to her familiar four poster bed. The Common Room was quite empty when she arrived, but she found she didn't mind it so badly. There was no one to fault her for spreading out her books on the floor as she delved into the world of Magical Theory, chewing nervously at her lip until she had to trek back towards the dungeons.
"May I enter, sir?"
"Yes, Miss Granger," he motioned for her to sit. The lights of several were glittering around him, set haphazardly around the books and papers of his desk, each flicker making him appear gaunter than usual. She noticed that he looked very tired… almost hauntingly so, by the darkness and radius of the half-moon circles beneath his eyes. What was it that was keeping him from sleep? She, herself, had been dealing with fitful sleep. The cold was creeping in around her exponentially throughout the day, but it typically peaked during the night. It would be no different in the tower. But she had Crookshanks and that throw this wizard had Conjured for her... somehow, it remained enchanted, despite having been given to her days before.
She guiltily kept it and indulged in its warmth every night. She wondered if Professor Snape had another, or if he missed it. The thought made her blush. He had much more to worry about than chills in the night that kept him awake...
He's certainly not stressed merely over your predicament, she admitted abashedly. Although he had resolved himself to treat her, he had far more pressing responsibilities… like spying for the Order. Had he visited Voldemort recently?
… had he killed anyone... recently?
Ever?
"I trust you have been practicing your inflection?"
She hesitated, blinking away the question she would never ask… She chewed her lip, contemplating. Although she believed she was ready to prove herself, she could never quite shake the feeling that she could not and would not ever meet his expectations, let alone impress him.
"Miss Granger," he drawled, drawing her eyes to his; they were black as night, so deep and yet so flat at the same time, as if merely an illusion she would never decipher, "You have read the books?"
She nodded determinedly.
"And you have quieted your mind?"
She nodded, slightly less so.
"Then show me."
She made a grimacing face, but nodded. Her face grew lax, but her shoulders stiffened determinedly. The world began to melt away from her: the sound from her ears, the breath through her nose, the rubbing of fabric against her skin and the firmness of wood beneath her thighs. Her sense of being became lax, unbidden, and yet true all the same. It was as if she had melted into the ground and now existed somewhere in between her mind and the real world.
"Very well," his voice interrupted, drawing her slightly towards the corporeal plane, "But you must look deeper. You've skimmed the surface… but now you must break through it. From silence, find truth."
"But—" she heard herself interrupted.
"Silence. Do as I say."
She obeyed, drifting back towards the haven of nothingness she had grown rather fond of. Although he did not touch her, she felt a warmth radiating from him, a presence, preventing her from slipping completely beyond. How was it that his presence, and not Madam Pomfrey's, or Crooks' could affect her in such a way?
Break the surface of what? An incredulous voice asked, batting at such incredulous notions. It was merely the fact that his presence was more... intimidating than the nurse or her familiar's. Despite its warmth, his was a presence her body instinctively responded to, as he had trained all of his students to be wary whenever he was near.
Or so she figured before she let the topic recede away from her.
She tensed, if only so that she could then relax, aiming to remain concentrated on the task at hand. Without her realizing, her shoulders had smoothed rather than rounded and her breathing became shallow. She couldn't begin to exactly imitate the confidence he displayed, but she could mock it enough to keep her fear at bay. As if she could match his expression, she jutted her jaw forward. Her brow furrowed slightly (attempting the best Snape "scowl" she could manage), until she had shed all other thoughts from her head except for the resonating silence.
Hermione drifted for a moment, drawn into a state of being and not being, of existence and nothing, focusing on practicing the steadfast nature of her professor and wiping her own nature from her mind. In that same instant, her world began to feel heavy and dark, weighed down by an unseen, unheard pressure. The young witch tensed, as she had momentarily been aware of her own body, her own soul once more. Although she had felt and seen worse, the helplessness she felt when dragged beneath the surface of the Black Lake (albeit in dream only and not reality) was enough to leave her quite unable to face what waited within.
Just listen. Listen for the song.
But how could she find it, when she could not first accept the void? It was cold and unfeeling and it made her think of the pitch black, lapping water of her dreams… The height of it was rising with every second, lapping up over her trainers. Her eyes remained squeezed shut rather than dare look towards the floor beneath her and break her inflection…
By Professor Snape's instruction, it was the depths of her mind she was to dissect if she wanted to gauge her own magic… if she wanted to depend on herself rather than upon him, she would have to face the blackness… the nothingness.
For once the mind was emptied, it could once again be filled.
While the thought of relying upon the potions master wasn't discomforting, per say, she knew to do so would be foolish and unnecessary. She was prideful enough—and curious as ever—to know what and how her magic, what was left, was functioning. Enough to consider delving into the depths without abandon, even though it made her tremble with fear to look upon it.
How the song would help, she was uncertain. She had been unable to find any books on the subject in the library. He said it would help, so she pricked her ears… but all she could hear was a thrumming nothing... an eerie, buzzing nothing. She shivered in response, finding herself quite unnerved when once the nothingness had been comforting.
It was a bit like finding the source of her soul, and the thought might her thrum with energy. Still, the water at her feet was ever dark and daunting, teasing up over her toes, reminding her of the emptiness that had begun to plague her, hip to shoulder and deep within.
Was her body freezing as her mind was? She could only imagine it was… nothing had ever felt as chilling as this did.
The fear was the product of a nightmare, only, she assured herself, quite as unreal as any other dream, fantastical or mundane. But its manifestation—the black pool—was enough to send shivers down her spine all the way to her toes. At its core, the fear was facing her emptiness… the emptiness of her magic, her soul. If her mind were to follow in the steps of her magic… well, it was not exactly a death, but something far worse in her opinion.
But it was an obstacle she needed to face. A burden she needed to accept. If she could not, then she did not deserve to face what waited beneath the surface.
This… void was a part of her—it was no different than the weight of her hands, the breath in her lungs, the sound in her ears. The blackness was simply… an aspect. A trait. It was always with her; she merely had never looked for it before.
Gauge your own power, how it fluctuates—determine if it is once again escaping you.
Her body was somehow both rapt and calm, loose and yet prepared to absorb any sound from without, any change in temperature or light would affect her… the darkness was beckoning, asking her mind to follow her body, to remove herself from the world that threatened to keep her ignorant and vulnerable.
She took a deep, inward breath, and then slipped into the depths. The water accepted her gracefully, letting her drift downward until it had completely engulfed her.
She could feel the chill over every inch of her skin when the blackness surged through the threshold, the sting of her body being stretched taut by tiny hooks. Then, it was around her and rising upwards still, enveloping her fully in a sheet of slimy, inky indifference, a pluming void determined to swallow her whole.
Her body was reacting instinctively, with violence, jerking against the pressure like a fish caught in a tangled net. Her gut screeched for her to keep fighting, to reject the darkness. If she could escape it, then she could return once more to the world that was real and corporeal and sensible, the world that she had known and understood.
But she knew if she turned back now, she would never again be able to truly succeed, and so she un-clenched her hands and relented, letting it consume her, until it had pierced her very bones. For the first time in her life, she was nothing at all, completely void of thought and feeling.
Free.
