Note: The characters here represented are the property of JK Rowling. Absolutely no profits have been derived from this work, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Thursday, November 7, 1996
Nearly transparent lashes fluttered to obscure two warm brown irises and a cascade of ruby hair turned momentarily to flame in the golden gleam of firelight. Hermione carefully looked over the perfect organic mask and grinned prettily, then felt her heart jump in her chest to see Ginny's innocent smile in the mirror's reflection.
It had taken weeks of practice to achieve this illusion so thoroughly, and to become adept at executing the difficult transformation at a moment's notice. Weeks of making the repetitive motions that her daily routine required only to steal away every evening – retreating into an unused classroom, an abandoned corridor, a vacant office – to practice and curse and struggle. Hermione loved the giddy anticipation she always felt as she approached an obliging door, looked this way and that for observers, and then cautiously but swiftly slipped through, her pulse threatening to burst the seams of her heart.
Learning to metamorph was not difficult because it was unnatural. Spells of dark magic rarely were, despite what wizards of the light often said. It felt to Hermione like perfecting an inherent ability to an absurd degree, rather than learning an entirely new one. Born metamorphmagi learned to transform as they learned to walk and speak – slowly and clumsily, but with a natural approach born of instinct more than intellect, and developed by constant and exhaustive repetition rather than study or instruction. And thus she was able to practice alone – no teacher, no book; only her training in Transfiguration to guide her, and her famous tenacity to drive her forward. Hurling available objects across the room with every failure and laughing with true delight with each success, Hermione eventually succeeded in realizing the full potential that Snape's potion and her skill would ever permit.
She relaxed for a moment, allowing her features to return to normal, and then flexed her magic again, moving through the transformation twice more, partly to convince herself that her success was not a hallucination born of overwork, and partly out of almost hysterical elation. Incredibly satisfied, she banished the mirror she had conjured and checked her watch. Two in the morning – far too late to make use of the latitude afforded her by most professors if she were to be caught. The library had closed hours ago; there was no place for her to have plausibly been. Hermione rapped herself over the head, casting a Disillusionment charm, and exited the dusty classroom as silently as she was able.
The classroom door, stiff from lack of use, creaked with all the subtle delicacy of a garden rake on asphalt, or so it seemed in the eerie stillness of night in Hogwarts castle. Hermione pinched her lips and eyes shut tight as she pushed and escaped through the narrowest opening, leaving the door ajar behind her, and moved swiftly down the first of a long series of dark hallways that would lead her to the fickle staircases. Just as she was about to turn the first corner, the sound of footsteps rooted her feet to the spot and constricted her lungs. She stood for a moment in terrified silence, just long enough to judge from the pace and shuffle that it was Filch moving his fastest towards her. In her panic she did the only thing she could think to do – she slipped off her shoes, grabbed them into her arms, and ran as fast as she could down the hallway from whence she came, slamming the open classroom door shut as she passed it.
After several blind turns punctuated by short sprints Hermione felt safe enough to slow to a walk. The classroom she had just vacated had obviously once been used as some sort of potions annex, for it was full from top to bottom and wall to wall with cupboards and worktables – quite enough potential hiding places to keep Filch searching for a long while. As her heart rate returned to normal, Hermione took note of her surroundings. She was at the entrance of a corridor she had never seen or heard of before. From the light of the last remaining torch behind her she could see three chandeliers bereft of most of their candles, each increasingly obscured by darkness as they faded into the nothingness beyond. Hermione cast a modified Incendio, illuminating whatever candles remained with wicks intact, and thus bathed the hallway in the faintest light. It appeared no more inviting now than it had before, but there was no other option. Hermione took her first tentative steps and hoped that she wouldn't soon be discovering an inexplicable dead end – one of her least favorite features of the enchanted, nearly sentient, castle.
For several minutes the corridor simply stretched on, only the ribs of each vault, rendered from a veined bluish marble added any interest to the space. It was rare to find so much undecorated surface in the castle – no tapestries, no portraits – and the absence of these touches of humanity made her think that this place was very old, possibly one of the earlier built parts of the castle, long since abandoned and forgotten. Every few feet she recast to light another series of candles before her, and the gentle glow they produced allowed her the confidence to move forward, but maintained the sense of security that darkness provided.
Still in her stocking feet, Hermione suddenly became aware of the cold. Smiling a little at the silly picture she would have presented if observed – standing barefoot in a corridor in her school uniform – she stooped to pull her shoes back on. Finishing the laces on her left oxford she moved to the right, and just as she wrapped one lace around the loop of the other, Hermione noticed a flicker of light in the distance…and her hand stilled. Her laces forgotten, she stood.
It was dim, the same quality of dim in which she stood – the dim of sporadic candles in low chandeliers. She watched, looking for the outline of a figure but finding none. It seemed for a split second that the light had been growing, moving towards her, but now it simply existed – neither approaching nor retreating, some fifty yards ahead. A crazed notion to call out seized her, but she resisted, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood. She took several steps back, her eyes enormous, her lips parted and nearly trembling. Every sense she possessed was suddenly sharpened to an animal precision and for a moment she thought she felt the air stir before her. Just as she was about to turn and flee, running towards whatever paltry punishment Filch might offer, a figure burst forth from the darkness, a powerful hand seized the back of her neck, and another flew to her mouth, silencing a scream.
Professor Snape's eyes were wide and fierce as they bore into hers and the glint of a dozen candles danced in the ample space that should have been iris, but seemed an extension of pupil. His lank hair fell forward, the tips of it touching the curls framing her face. His robes swirled around her, swiping the backs of her calves as they swung forward and then dragged back, coming to rest like faithful black hounds at his heels. She didn't struggle – the desire to do so was overwhelming but not because she felt the need to escape him. Her mind had adjusted to the shock, but her body was still coursing with adrenaline and the desire for flight. He seemed to recognize this, and waited five long seconds before he released her, taking a large step back. She stumbled a bit as he let go, her knees feeling wobbly, but had the presence of mind to crane her neck up to face him and whisper "Filch" indicating the hallway behind her with the wave of her shaking hand. His gaze traveled lazily away from her face and over her shoulder. Pulling his wand from his sleeve he silently extinguished the trail of light she'd left behind, thrusting them into total darkness.
Snape turned from her, and wordlessly began a brisk progression towards his own little lights. She followed behind, half jogging to keep up, and periodically cast extinguishing spells as they moved.
Some two hundred yards ahead, the corridor terminated as suddenly as it had begun. After another few twists and turns, familiar surroundings started to show themselves. Just as they approached the junction where Hermione should break away to the left, following a short distance to the first of many staircases leading to Gryffindor tower, Snape stopped, opened a large oak door to their right and stood aside, waiting for her to enter. Hermione crossed the threshold and moved to the far end of the room, bending wordlessly to tie her right shoe.
"Your excuse," Snape prompted.
Hermione smiled down at her laces as she finished the knot. She rose slowly, and by the time her shoulders were straight, the hair that danced around them did so in thick, straight, shiny sheets of the deepest maroon.
Snape gave no outward indication of surprise save a barely perceivable tightening around the eyes. He took two long strides towards her and then began a wide but leisurely circle around to her left.
She didn't follow him with her gaze. He was looking her over, examining her from every angle for errors, and she let him complete his slow appraisal unhindered. Returning to his position some ten feet in front of her he finally spoke.
"Tomorrow, seven. You have detention."
Hermione dropped her guise, pulled a face of incredulity and opened her mouth to argue. Snape closed his eyes for a moment as if pleading with some external force for strength and patience in the face of idiocy. Hermione closed her mouth with a snap. She was an idiot, she thought.
Detention wasn't detention. It was training.
