Phoenix Fire, Chapter 13: Feast
DISCLAIMER : The characters described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.
When Hermione woke, it took several seconds to recollect the events of the previous day. She recognised the bed linen of the Hospital Ward first, and then, in a sudden rush, remembered the attack at Hogsmeade, the wound in her shoulder, and Snape's unexpected arrival just before she went to sleep. Was he still there?
Hermione sat up abruptly, her heart racing. There he was, seated not far from her bed, reading the early edition of the Daily Prophet.
He lowered the paper when he heard her move. For a few seconds, they stared at one another.
"Miss Granger," he said, nodding stiffly.
"Good morning, sir."
After six weeks in which he'd barely spoken to her or met her eye, even in class, Hermione didn't know how to take his bedside vigil. Was he there because she was injured? Would he have sat there for any other student? She wanted him to talk to her. She wanted a conversation. She couldn't think of anything to say.
The silence between them was charged.
"I'll go and get Poppy," said Snape.
"Wait!" Hermione found herself with one arm outstretched, reaching after him.
He paused for a second, then turned back. He placed the paper on the bed beside her.
"There will be an Order meeting later today," he said. He wasn't looking at her again. "I trust that you will be recovered enough to attend. No doubt you will wish to familiarise yourself with Skeeter's account of yesterday's events."
And with that, he was gone.
Hermione flopped back down onto her pillow. Tears burned her eyes, and though she did her best to blink them away, she was crying when Madame Pomfrey arrived at her bedside.
"It hurts that badly?" Pomfrey asked with concern, her wand carving up the air as she ran a set of rapid diagnostics.
Hermione's shoulder ached, but not enough to excuse her soggy state. "No," she managed, swallowing hard and scrubbing at her face with the heel of her hand. "I'm sorry, it's nothing."
"I see," said Pomfrey. Her wand hand dropped to her side and with her other hand she stroked Hermione's hair back from her forehead.
Her voice and her gesture were so gentle, so sympathetic, that Hermione found her tears redoubled.
"Let it all out, dear," advised Poppy. "Better than keeping it bottled up inside."
In response, Hermione sobbed. For several long minutes, she turned her face into the pillow, wept and sniffled. Pomfrey pottered around the bed, straightening the sheets on the adjacent beds, tidying the side tables, and watering the plant by the window. Every now and then she clicked her tongue or murmured neutral, soothing words.
When Hermione's tears had subsided to an occasional hiccup, Pomfrey took another diagnostic.
"Cup of tea?" she inquired.
"Yes please." Hermione pushed herself up to a seated position and made an effort to neaten her hair.
Pomfrey conjured a tray and set it to hover over Hermione's lap.
"Sometimes it's hard to know what's worse," commented Poppy, "being attacked by Death Eaters or having to put up with Severus on an empty stomach."
Was that a joke? Hermione's eyes flew to Pomfrey's face, but there was no evidence there to help. Had Madame Pomfrey just vocalised the awful strain of her brief interaction with Snape? Or was she merely making mildly humorous small talk?
Pomfrey poured them each a cup of tea and then settled herself on the seat that Snape had so recently vacated.
"Poor man has spent so long concealing his actions behind a screen of nasty, nasty words, that I'm not sure he knows any other way to be."
Madame Pomfrey seemed so matter of fact. She sat there, blowing over the surface of her tea to cool it, apparently unconcerned that she had brought into the open the one topic Hermione most wished someone would talk about.
Hermione aimed for casual, too. "Does he regularly sit up with students for you?"
To her own ears she sounded false, artificially distant and clearly desperate for the answer. She wanted to bury her face back in the pillow with shame. Instead she blew on her own tea and kept her eyes down as she strained her body towards the answer.
"Goodness gracious, no. He checks on his Slytherins, of course, whenever any of them are here, but he's never sat up all night with anyone else."
The words seemed to swim in through one ear, out the other, and then circle round her head. Hermione felt dizzy.
"That's the thing about Severus," added Pomfrey, "you have to judge his intentions by his actions, not by his facade."
Before Hermione could marshal her thoughts enough to make some response, the watch pinned on Pomfrey's bosom chirped gently. With a sigh, Pomfrey pushed herself out of her chair and sent her tea flying on ahead to her office.
"No rest for the wicked," she said, excusing herself with a wry grimace.
Poppy's words continued to echo in Hermione's ears. She sat and drank her tea, her head a whirlwind of memories: of Snape, of the war, of the hospital wing, of Snape, of his Phoenix song, of Snape, of her friends, of the attack, and of Snape—over and over again.
The Order meeting that afternoon was a tense affair.
"We're still waiting for Kingsley," noted McGonagall, "but I think we should begin."
Bill summarised what they knew about the attacks; Snape provided some details on the dead Death Eater, Nahum Keene; Arthur discussed the reports that had appeared in the Daily Prophet.
"Basically," stated Harry, running one hand back through his hair in frustration, "we know nothing."
"We need Kingsley," said Ron. "He'll have the Aurors' reports and—"
As if conjured by Ron's words, there was a knock on the door, and both Shacklebolts entered at McGonagall's command.
"We have a problem," said Kingsley. He pulled a copy of the Daily Prophet out from under one arm and shook it out. "This is tomorrow's paper."
The headline flashed and shimmered across the page: "Minister of Magic or Vigilante Leader?"
"Rita Skeeter's been hard at work," added Kingsley.
"In the interests of time," said Kaleisha, "let me summarise the gist: Kingsley, Skeeter intimates, is exploiting his position as Minister of magic in order to advance the agenda of a vigilante group established by Albus Dumbledore."
"Ah," said Minerva.
"Bugger," said Ron.
"What are we going to do?" asked Hermione.
"Honestly," said Kaleisha, "I think Kingsley should immediately tender his resignation to one group or another, but preferably the 'vigilante group,'"—she enclosed the phrase in air quotes—"before this paper hits the stands."
Kingsley looked miserable; Snape let out a long breath through his nose.
"But Dumbledore never stopped running the Order!" protested Harry.
"Yeah, but he never joined the ministry, either," said Ron.
"This is ridiculous! We can't let Rita Bloody Skeeter control us!"
"Oh, Harry. It's not that simple." McGonagall sighed. "This is the kind of scandal that could destroy Kingsley's political career. If he leaves the Order now, he can talk about his association with the group in the past tense, even under Veritaserum. If he doesn't, he puts all of us and our actions at risk."
"I don't want to leave," said Kingsley. "The Order has been my life."
"Harry," added McGonagall, "It's more important for us to have a sympathetic Minister, like Kingsley, who will work to erase prejudice and to further similar goals, than to keep Kingsley bound by his oath."
"Severus?" Kingsley turned to Snape, seeking his permission.
"I accept your resignation," he said, without any trace of his customary sarcasm. "Your service to the Order has been exemplary."
"As my last contribution," said Kingsley, pulling a roll of parchment from an inner pocket, "I brought a copy of the Aurors' reports on the Hogsmeade attack. I should also tell you that I have filed for a minesterial override of threatened charges for the production, use, and dissemination of unauthorised Portkeys. Kaleisha is working on a petition that would give the school the authority to use Portkeys for students under credible threat."
"Small mercies," muttered Hooch.
The rest of the meeting was taken up with unravelling Kingsley's oath. Once he left the others looked at each other with something akin to despair. The Aurors' report had added no new information to the Death Eater investigation and instead of moving the discussion forwards, Kingsley's visit had left them short a vital member of their unit.
"This meeting," said Snape, "is adjourned."
He swept out before Hermione could even consider trying to talk to him.
Harry lingered so long over the Halloween feast that Hermione almost ditched him.
If only he had been happily chatting with Ron about Quidditch, she would have felt no compunction, kissing them both fondly before heading up to her room. There was a fascinating book McGonagall had leant her on individual style and transfiguration outcomes waiting on her bedside table, and she could have pulled the curtains around her and dwelt uninterrupted on the problem of Snape.
But Harry wasn't talking to Ron. Far from it. Ron sat at the other end of the long table with Neville, Seamus, and Dean, and the intermittent shouts of hilarity that floated over to Harry and Hermione showed that Ron, at least, was having a great evening. Harry, for his part, was staring down at his dessert and chopping his pumpkin tart into progressively smaller pieces.
Not for the first time, Hermione pondered the irony of the current situation. Ginny had been surprisingly placated by the major role she'd played in the Hogsmeade skirmish: she had rescued the Slytherin boy, Cavendish, and she'd held her own in a two-way duel. This time, it was Harry who was criticised for putting himself into harm's way. Harry who had been told that he should have thought of his own safety first. Harry who was directed to leave the rescuing to others.
Bugger Dumbledore for having instilled the martyr complex so efficiently.
Rather than recognising that he'd essentially been tarred with the brush that had shadowed Ginny throughout the war, Harry was sulky and furious. Hermione had only escaped his rage by dint of her convalescence in the hospital wing. Funny, really, since she had been burning to tell him off for his behaviour. Several times over the last week Hermione had had to bite her tongue, humming noncommittally as he suggested that had he fled, his sudden disappearance might have infuriated the Death Eaters to the point where they attacked the defenceless younger students in retribution.
When the last of the plates cleared by magic, and Harry's mashed up dessert disappeared, Hermione thought they might be free to go. But Harry didn't move until several minutes after the last of the other Gryffindors had drifted away.
At last he looked up and met her eye with an apologetic grimace.
"Thanks, Hermione," he said.
"That's okay. Shall we go back to the common room?" She couldn't help the hopeful note that crept into her voice.
"Actually," Harry gave a surreptitious glance over his shoulder. "There's something I have to do first. I brought the cloak; can you keep a look out for me in the corridor while I disappear?"
Hermione stared at her friend with her mouth slightly ajar. Several possible replies sped through Hermione's head—from outright disbelief to screaming rage.
"It's okay, Hermione." Harry could clearly read something of her reaction, even though she hadn't yet said anything. "I promise I won't go out of the school building. You can wait up, if you want. I won't be that long, maybe only a couple of minutes behind you. I'm not putting myself in danger. I swear it."
Hermione wanted to ask him where he was going, but she didn't. She considered insisting that she had to come, or Disillusioning herself and trying to follow him, but she didn't do either of those things.
"Fine," she said, heavy at heart. Without waiting for his thanks or any further explanation, she pushed up from the table and headed out of the great hall. Harry followed closely behind, and once they'd reached a deserted stretch of hallway, she turned back towards him. "Go now," she said. "I'll see you in the common room. If you're not back by midnight, I'm going to McGonagall."
"I got it: if I'm not back by midnight, I'll turn into a pumpkin." Harry gave her a hint of a smile. He leant forwards and kissed her cheek. "You make a great fairy godmother."
"You," said Hermione, rolling her eyes, "too, can go to the ball."
Harry grinned outright and pulled the translucent length of his cloak from an inside pocket. For an instant, as he swung it around him, Hermione caught its shimmer and saw his face framed in sliver fabric, then he was gone.
For a few seconds, Hermione stood in the corridor, feeling abandoned, before heading back to Gryffindor tower.
Ron—bless him—had waited up for her, all by himself. He was tossing a Weasleys' Wheezes Jogging Juggler absently from hand to hand, and the three legs of the tumbling ball spun furiously in the air. When he saw Hermione, though, he shoved the Juggler into a pocket and got to his feet.
Hermione walked over straight into his embrace, resting her forehead against his breastbone and closing her eyes. His large hands gripped her upper arms gently and he rubbed his thumbs across the front of her shoulder.
"You wanna sit by the fire and cuddle for a while?"
Hermione pulled a face into his robes and then tipped back her head. "I can't. I have to do something for Harry."
"Hang in there," replied Ron, tugging gently on a stray curl of her hair. "He can't stay grumpy at the rest of us forever."
"Can you do me a favour?"
"Depends."
Hermione poked him companionably in the ribs. He was in her favourite mood: gentle, observant, lightly teasing. "Can you see if the Marauders' Map is Harry's trunk, and if it is fetch it down? I don't think I can bear Seamus and his wolf whistles tonight."
"Sure." Ron pressed a kiss to her hairline and disappeared up the staircase towards the boys dormitories.
It took him a few minutes, but he appeared with the parchment in hand, and some of Hermione's crushing anxiety about Harry lightened. Ron passed the map across without comment. "I, um, guess I'll leave you to it, then," he said.
Hermione flashed him a grateful smile. "Thanks, Ron," she said, standing up on tiptoes to press a kiss against the corner of his mouth. "Say goodnight to Neville for me."
Ron brightened slightly. "Yeah. Maybe I can get him to talk about his love interest!"
Hermione shook her head, smiling, as her boyfriend scampered back up the stairs to pursue his latest obsession. At this rate, he'd soon have asked Neville who he wanted to take to the Yule Ball more times than he had asked Hermione who she was going with at the previous one.
"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good," said Hermione quietly, tapping her wand on the parchment.
Immediately, thin black lines bled out from the point where her wand had touched, twisting and shifting into a growing map of Hogwarts. She seated herself by the fire, pouring over the visible names and searching for Harry's location. Since curfew had passed and all of the students (except Harry) were tucked safely away in their respective houses, her task was relatively simple. Even still, it took her a good few minutes to locate him.
He was in the Potions Master's office. With Snape.
Hermione stared at the parchment as if the force of her gaze could burn through the surface in order to see and hear what was happening, but the two ink dots, with their tiny scripted labels, remained—unmoving.
Her flash of relief that Harry was safe was more than outweighed by a burning furnace of jealousy.
Is Snape meeting with Harry regularly?
He won't speak to me, but he's meeting with Harry?
Hermione wasn't certain how long she stood there, but at some point, she pulled herself together. Keeping one eye on the Marauders' Map, she headed over to the girls' staircase, and checked that it was empty. A muttered charm was sufficient to open the door of her dormitory from her place at the bottom of the stairs and, with the route clear, she Accioed her book from where it sat beside her bed. Hermione then settled herself into a chair that was nearish to the fire but with a good view of the door. She tried to focus on her reading.
She wasn't particularly successful. Every few seconds she looked again at the Map, checking and re-checking that Harry was still seated in Snape's office. For forty-five minutes, neither man moved. At that point, the dot marked "Harry" set out from Snape's office and made its way slowly and surely back to Gryffindor tower. Precisely on cue, the portrait door swung open, and Harry appeared in the flesh.
"Hi," she said, her voice sounding abrupt after her long, tense silence.
"Hey," replied Harry. His eyes dropped to the Marauders' Map, which lay visible on her lap. "I was visiting Snape," he added needlessly.
"So I saw."
There was an awkward silence. Harry came and sat in the chair opposite Hermione.
"Tonight, during the feast," he said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, "I got thinking about things. What with the ridiculous decorations and celebrating Nearly-Headless-Nick's deathday and everything else that went on over the years, I never really thought about the fact that Halloween is the anniversary of my parents' death." He shrugged and pulled a face at his own oblivious behaviour. "So I went and asked Snape to tell me about my mum."
"You did?" Snape himself would have excoriated her for such a redundant question, but frankly, the idea of Snape and Harry sitting down to discuss Lily Potter née Evans struck her as fantastical. "What did he say?"
Harry gave her a wistful smile. "Actually, he said she was pretty much a mixture of you and Ginny."
"He said that she was like me?" Hermione realised that she was sounding stupid, but couldn't seem to fold her brain around anything more intelligent.
"Well, no. That was my summary of it."
"What exactly did Snape say about me?" The words were out of her mouth before Hermione could think better of them. "I'm sorry! You don't have to answer that. I don't mean to pry."
"That's okay." Harry gave her a tentative smile. "I'd kind of like to talk about it if you didn't mind. I want to make sure I remember everything Snape said."
"I don't mind at all! I just can't even imagine Snape being willing to talk about it to you of all people!"
Harry laughed. "So, I knocked on his study door—not even sure that he'd be there. Obviously, he was, but then I felt terrified! He said, 'Come in,' so I opened the door. Then he did his whole, 'You'd better have a good reason for being here, Mr Potter, or you'll be scrubbing bedpans in the hospital wing for the next four months!' routine."
Hermione grinned at Harry's light-hearted impersonation. "What did you say?" she prompted him. Her stomach was twisted at the idea that Snape had mentioned her.
"I just stood there like an idiot and blurted: 'I was hoping you could tell me about my mum.'"
Hermione covered her eyes. "You're lucky he didn't saddle you with the bedpans!"
"I know!" Harry laughed. "I wish we had a Pensieve," he added, less cheerfully. "There's no way I'm going to remember everything."
Hermione bit down on her lower lip. "I don't have a Pensieve," she said after a moment's hesitation, "but we could view your memory inside your head."
"You mean Legilimency?"
"Yeah." Hermione raised one shoulder disparagingly.
Harry nodded and squared his shoulders. "What do I need to do?"
"Just think about the start of the memory; I promise not to look at anything else." Hermione drew her wand and placed it gently against Harry's temple. She took his hand for good measure. "Are you ready?"
"I warn you," said Harry a little sheepishly, "I was a bit of a prat."
"We don't have to do this."
"No, I want to." Harry squeezed her hand.
Hermione whispered, "Legilimens."
Hermione felt her centre of gravity shift. When her world settled, she was present in Snape's office. Unlike with memories viewed in a Pensieve, she had no corporeal body, but even though Harry was—in the memory—standing awkwardly in the open doorway, Hermione could feel that he was present as well, floating, just as she was.
"Mr Potter." Snape leant back in his chair and steepled his fingers in lieu of punctuation. "I do hope you have a good reason for being out after curfew; if not, you'll be scrubbing bedpans in the Hospital Wing for the foreseeable future."
"It's Halloween," responded Harry. He looked terribly nervous. "I—I was hoping you could tell me about my mum."
There was a long pause. Snape barely moved; Harry rocked back and forth slightly on the balls of his feet.
"Sit down, Potter."
The relief on Harry's face was almost comical, and he hurried to seat himself before Snape's desk
"What do you want to know?"
Harry looked a little lost. "Anything. I mean, pretty much the only thing I know about her is that she was good at Potions. I don't even know what she was like."
"Lily," said Snape, lingering slightly over her name, "was smart. She was outspoken, sometimes bossy."
Harry gave a tremulous smile. "She sounds like Hermione."
"Yes and no." Snape straightened his quill where it lay next to a pile of marking. "Lily was never as hard as Hermione is."
Hearing Snape talk about her left Hermione breathless.
"Lily made friends effortlessly," continued Snape. "She could fit in anywhere. She was neither as smart as Hermione is, nor did she suffer from a continual need to demonstrate her intelligence to those around her. At the same time, Lily wasn't as tough, or as loyal as Hermione has proved to be."
"Hermione's my best friend," said Harry, unexpectedly. "I mean, Ron's my best friend, but Hermione's my best friend, if you know what I mean."
Snape didn't say anything.
"No-one else could, or would, have done for me what Hermione has done."
"You have to be aware, Potter, that the first war unfolded very differently from the last. When Lily and I were at Hogwarts, the Dark Lord was the head of a respected—if occasionally controversial—faction at the Ministry."
"What? The Pureblood Party?" Harry sounded disgusted.
Snape raised one eyebrow at Harry's outburst. "Precisely."
"How did anyone fall for that?"
Snape sighed and cast his eyes towards the ceiling. "Potter," he said, with all of his usual scorn, but less of the venom, "do try and think about what the wizarding world might have been like at the time. For Muggles, the twentieth century has been a veritable whirlwind of new technologies, from the industrialisation and urbanisation of the early nineteen hundreds to the computers and electronic devices of recent times. With the invention and mass distribution of electricity, and the ever-more-complicated machines that it runs, Muggles have begun to recreate some of the effects that wizards and witches have long taken for granted. And, in English society in particular, the rigid lines of class distinction have begun to crumble.
"In earlier times Muggle-born wizards and witches not only discovered a secret, magical kingdom on their eleventh birthday, but also gained access to a place where the impossible was suddenly conceivable. Even the meanest wizard lived in a level of comfort that was simply unknown to rural or working-class Muggles—and the small size of the historically moneyed class ensured that the vast majority of Muggle-born wizards and witches were drawn from the lower classes. Wizards had clean, free light beyond sundown, no-one worked in a stinking factory, there was no hard physical labour such as that of Muggle society.
"At the time, the pureblood families were—with few exceptions—filthy rich, and they operated much as the nobility of Muggle England did: they expected to be treated with a certain level of respect, and through the Wizengamot, they made most of the rules. They saw it as their task to protect the wizarding world under its shield of secrecy, and their traditions were an important means with which to police the dissemination of knowledge."
Snape paused. "Can you imagine the terror and greed that would have overwhelmed England had the knowledge of magic spread?"
Harry frowned. "Probably not much different from what would happen now."
"Yes," acknowledged Snape with a brief inclination of his head, "but consider how the situation began to change during the sixties and seventies. The general English population had a higher standard of living than they had previously enjoyed, even though they remained predominantly working class. Muggle-born witches and wizards arrived with less respect for hallowed notions of birth and nobility. In many cases, there were elements of their earlier lives that they wished to retain. A number of Muggle-borns pushed for higher levels of Muggle and magical co-operation. In some cases, Muggles with a fondness for fantasy novels or science fiction failed to understand the value of the Statue of Secrecy. The situation was fraught."
"That doesn't excuse Voldemort's behaviour!"
"No."
Harry fumed, while Snape watched him over steepled fingertips.
"Well?" demanded Harry eventually, breaking the long silence. "You can't tell me that my mum was sympathetic to the Pureblood Party!"
"No."
"Or my dad! Or the Weasleys!"
Snape shrugged. "Arthur did his best to rally support against the group, but . . ."
"But what?" Harry had worked himself into one of his characteristic rages.
"But Arthur, like all of the Weasleys, is a Gryffindor."
Harry blinked stupidly. "I didn't come here so that you could insult me," he protested.
"Potter," sighed Snape, "the Ministry—then as now—employed rather more Slytherins than it did Gryffindors. And you needn't glare as if the corruption of the institution should be laid single-handedly at Slytherin feet: my house is characterised by ambition, Potter, not by evil. It provides an excellent background for those who wish for a career in politics, and they arrive at the Ministry with a network of contacts already intact. Gryffindors, on the other hand, rarely have the ability to manoeuvre through the minefield of public office with the necessary subtlety."
"How come you liked my mum? She was a Gryffindor." Harry had managed to move from furious to sulky.
"I had the pleasure of knowing your mother before her house allegiances became apparent," replied Snape reprovingly.
Another silence stretched between the two men. Hermione watched Snape watching Harry, and she was taken aback when Harry spoke again.
"Did . . . did she ever speak to you again, after the argument?"
"Yes."
"Really?" Harry's face brightened perceptibly. "She forgave you? What happened?"
"Enough, Potter. I agreed to talk about your mother, not about myself."
"I—I'm sorry . . ."
Snape scowled. "It's time for you to go."
"Can I come back? Another time?"
Snape hummed ambiguously. "We'll see," he said.
Harry got up, visibly reluctant. As he reached the door, he looked back as he pulled the Invisibility cloak out from inside his robes. Hermione thought he might be about to say something further, but Snape interrupted him before he managed to speak.
"Oh, and Potter?"
"Yes, sir."
"Ten points from Gryffindor for being out after curfew."
Hermione gently retreated from Harry's mind, blinking in the sudden glare of the common room fire.
"I thought it would hurt," said Harry. He straightened his glasses and gave her an awkward smile. "The Legilimency, I mean. You know," he added, "I meant it, about you being my best friend."
One side of Hermione's mouth curled upwards. She had a sudden urge to ruffle Harry's hair, but rubbed at her upper arms instead. "Thanks," she said. "The things Snape said about the first war were really interesting." As were the things he said about me. But she didn't say that to Harry.
"Yeah," agreed Harry. "I wish Binns were half as interesting. I might even have stayed in History of Magic."
They sat there in a companionable silence for a while, staring into the fire.
"Hey, Harry, would you do me a favour?"
He looked at her expectantly.
"Make up with Ron?"
Harry pulled a face. "It may not seem like it," he said plaintively, "but I'm trying so hard to be a grown up!"
Hermione couldn't help laughing. "You idiot."
"Pretty much," he agreed.
Hermione went up to bed, but she was too wired to sleep. Instead, she pulled her bed curtains closed and furnished herself with paper and a sharp pencil. Her head was spinning, and in such circumstances, there were few things that helped as well as Arithmancy.
She divided out her page into quintants and labelled them with her prevalent emotions: jealousy, pain, confusion, excitement, delight. She put Snape at the centre where the axes crossed, and distributed the other factors as best she could. Harry and his mother went into "jealousy"; the silent treatment went into "pain"; Snape's comments about her to Harry went into "delight", as did his vigil by her bedside. Poppy Pomfrey's comments went into "excitement", and as Hermione thought about what the nurse had said, she doodled swirls and runes around the border of her page.
Snape uses his everyday behaviour to distract people from what he's actually up to.
So what was he up to?
Hermione turned her page over and made two columns. In one, she listed his everyday behaviour: lack of eye contact, the silent treatment, the ridiculous Potions' assignment on Wartcap mushrooms. In the other, she put the way he'd lunged and caught her in McGonagall's office and his promise to watch over her while she slept.
Her heart was beating fast.
The only explanation that made any sense was that Snape cared about her, but was trying to hide it.
Get a grip, Granger, she muttered, forcing herself to take several deep breaths. It just means that he cares if you get hurt, that's it. Nothing . . . more.
What would happen, she wondered, if she turned up at his office to visit him—like Harry had? Would he talk to her?
Hermione lay back on her pillow and fantasised about wandering down to the dungeons that very minute. He'd been angry with her once before, she remembered, and she'd turned up in his office and found herself on the receiving end of an impassioned apology.
She'd have to have something worth talking to him about, she decided. Snape wasn't about to provide her with an opportunity, she'd have to carve it out for herself. The question was, what?
When she finally fell asleep, one small fact kept repeating in her mind: in Harry's memory, Snape had called her "Hermione."
Hermione was eating porridge and revising her Muggle Studies reading when Harry came down to breakfast the next morning. With a set jaw, he plonked himself down in an empty seat opposite Neville and Ron.
"'Morning," he said stiffly.
For a second, conversation stilled.
"Good morning," replied Neville.
"Have a sausage, mate," said Ron, pushing across a platter that he'd been hoarding.
"Thanks."
Hermione let out a long sigh of relief and raised her eyes to share a conspiratorial wink with Ginny.
"So," said Harry to Neville, pausing to swallow a mouthful of breakfast, "I don't suppose Ron managed to find out who you want to take to the Yule Ball, yet?"
"Nope," replied Neville firmly. "And he's not going to."
"Well, you're still going to have to ask someone, Neville," interjected Ron.
"Nope," said Neville again. "I don't have to ask anyone. I'm going to go on my own."
"You can't!"
"Can too. I'm going to set up a special table just for bachelors. You can sit with me, if you want, Harry."
Harry paused and stared at Neville for a long moment.
"Yeah, actually," he said finally. "I'd like that."
"What? You can't! What about me?" Ron's outrage was almost comical.
"What about you?" asked Neville. "You'll be dancing with Hermione." He jerked his head in Hermione's direction.
"What a fucking disaster," muttered Ginny. "I'm off to class," she announced more loudly, pushing back her chair and stalking away.
Neville was elaborating on his plans. "We can drink butterbeer, and talk about Quidditch as much as we want. Dean can sit with us if Padma still hasn't forgiven him. There'll be no girls allowed! And no boys with girlfriends, either."
"But—"
"Personally, I think it's a great idea," said Harry firmly, cutting across Ron's protestations.
Ron was fuming, and following Ginny's lead suddenly appeared as an extraordinarily attractive proposition. Hermione grabbed a piece of toast for the walk and set her books to follow her with a wave of her wand.
"I'm off to the library," she announced to everyone and no-one. "See you all later!"
She could hear Ron's complaints and protests right up until she left the Great Hall and stepped into the foyer.
A/N: So, the plot (or the plots? sometimes I'm not sure myself) thickens . . .
And, did you notice, A WHOLE DAY EARLY on my once-a-week chapter diet? Truth is I'm going to be up all night working on some writing I have to get done for work and I figured that A) if I got this out of the way first, I might not be so distracted, and B) that any reviews might inspire me into the confidence I need. So go on, I beg you! Leave a review. ;)