CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE—Breakthrough
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Severus finished buttoning his coat. Hermione sat up straight in bed. He couldn't see much of her face for her hair was everywhere.
She sprang into action a moment later—she snatched her sling from the table and finagled her arm into it, then skittered into her bedroom and shut the door.
What the bloody Hell is that about?
The schedule Hermione had created down to the half hour increments stated he had some free time for half the day. Might as well figure out what she was up to and head off whatever foolish idea she or Potter or Weasley came up with.
Dressing was slow-going with one arm out of commission. It had only been a week but Hermione felt much improved. She had a hunch about why and wanted to verify.
She also needed to figure out what other items Voldemort would entrust with his soul.
She could research two birds with one stone in the library.
Her hair looked a right mess on the side she couldn't reach, and she couldn't wear trainers since she couldn't tie them. But the arms were through the right shirt holes, and the legs were in the correct sides of her trousers, so, to the library she went.
It was a Saturday, so the library was nowhere near at capacity. That suited Hermione fine. She checked the rolls for books she might need—books on magical laws and contracts, Daily Prophet editions about the marriage law, Hogwarts yearbooks from Voldemort's time as a student and the biographies of Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin.
The heavy books floated over to her usual seat. She gathered the papers and magazines by hand.
The first thing that struck her was a photograph of Riddle in his last year. He was stoic at Professor Slughorn's side, posing for a group Slug Club shot.
She did not linger on that page. That he could kill a former mentor so easily—not today. She would have to think about it later.
The last page listed the honorable mentions and awards handed out during the term. Tom Riddle's services to the school award was the last mention of him.
Hermione growled and ran her hand through her hair. It was frustrating to see his reward for murdering Myrtle—and framing Hagrid for it.
To switch gears, she researched the marriage law's current incarnation, not that that subject was any more cheerful. Edits over the previous version included: No compulsion to love (which Hermione approved of), no compulsion to procreate (which Hermione vehemently approved of), no punishment clause for infidelity (so far, this could have been way, way worse, Hermione realized), and a reduction from birthing a required two children to only one to exit the marriage or none at all.
Hermione scooted the Prophets away to pull the law book closer. Based on how the book immediately fell open to the marriage section, she had not been the only one to do some research lately.
The archaic language required some mental gymnastics, but Hermione finally found her answer. Long story short, the Healers were being overrun with critical injuries, so the law gave a little perk to the unfortunate souls forced to get married—proximity to the spouse, via leveraging each other's magic, encouraged the body's healing processes.
So brewing in the same room would help a headache, and sleeping in the same bed would accelerate her arm's repair.
With that information Hermione felt...better. More useful to Severus. He didn't like her, and he didn't like when she offered to help him with anything. But this way, neither of them even had to ask. She helped him heal, whether he liked it or not.
She squinted at the fine print.
One of the old clauses written out of the new iteration explained why healing injuries and illnesses was required. Something about an effort to protect privacy—
Oh. I see.
She shut the book.
In case the new husband was not exactly gentle with his new wife.
She had a hard time imagining what she would do if Professor Snape ever raised his hand to her. Or his wand, as it were.
Severus was suspicious.
That was his normal disposition, but regardless, he had to wonder—why would Dumbledore stick Granger with him?
He had taken Dumbledore's reasoning at face value; both Severus and Hermione had been dragged into this marriage requirement and they both lived here.
Albus had not spent any time thinking of a solution for her, or other students, at all. That much was obvious when Walter went to the farce of a Wizengamot and quasi-successfully argued that students should be exempt. They only agreed to a case by case basis. No doubt they were each privy to the bounty on three particular students' heads.
Then again, with Rowle as the minister, Dumbledore would've been hexed out of the room had he gone in himself.
Severus rubbed one of his temples. Perhaps Albus was tired of Severus and wanted to be rid of him. His death would be swift once it was revealed he was married to the witch. It was more likely he was tired of Moody demanding Severus be taken care of.
There had been some close calls with the Dark Lord. Severus was finally able to push their wedding ceremony to the back of his mind, along with all the times they did any talking outside of the lab or classroom. But that 'singing' incident was a bit more tricky. The bizarre screeches—the way her hair bounced as she bobbed her head. People were not so casual as to dance in his presence, unless it had something to do with a Quidditch victory.
If Severus was as valuable to Albus as he kept telling Moody, why would he be saddled with yet another obstacle? Yet another, loud, dancing marker of his treachery?
As he swept up the halls from dungeon to Gryffindor Tower, it nagged at him.
If it wasn't to make his life harder, it was to make someone's life easier. Hermione's or Potter's.
Since this arrangement voided Hermione's apprenticeship on paper, and Albus was not the match-making sort, it had to be for Potter's benefit.
Pawns and knights and queens, that's all we are, he thought. So how does this help Potter? Did it give him a laugh? Did Hermione spy on him, tell Potter and Moody each breath and step he took?
Severus spun around to head downstairs. Where would Hermione go if she had an idea?
The library.
Hermione had three of the four biographies open. Each book had a series of paintings and sketches of the founders. They each had their representative animal—and they each had an item in their hands.
The sword of Gryffindor? Voldemort wouldn't even be worthy enough to touch it, let alone somehow find it. But that locket around Salazar Slytherin's neck? Matched the replica Harry carried around in his pocket.
Hermione sprang from her chair. With her left hand, she scrawled, in the worst handwriting she'd ever seen, two more things on her small slip of parchment and shoved it in her sling. No one could know her theories.
The books returned themselves to the shelves. As fast as she could without a scolding from Madam Pince, Hermione returned the periodicals to the proper shelves.
This was their first breakthrough. She had to tell Harry and Ron.
Ah, yes. There she was, flitting at an alarming pace between the magazines and old newspapers. She held her sling as if her arm might fall out.
She was deep in thought and didn't notice him until she was halfway down the aisle. Hermione jolted to a stop when she saw him.
Severus crossed his arms at the end of the stack.
Loud enough for some Hufflepuffs to hear, he asked, "Where are you off to in such a sprint, Miss Granger?"
"Sorry, Professor, I will slow down," she said without pause.
"Five points from Gryffindor. Try to be more careful in the library, Miss Granger."
The nearby students put their noses in their books, respectful of frayed edges and broken spines.
The picture of a polite, but offended, Gryffindor, she said, "Yes, Professor."
He stepped back to let her pass.
At a much slower pace, she did. At a greater distance than before, he followed her until she exited the front doors. Now he'd have no idea what she'd been worked up about. When she got worked up about something, it usually involved battling enchantments or flying off to the Ministry.
Hermione rushed into Hagrid's hut. Fang hopped up to slobber on her.
"What's up, 'Ermione?"
Harry set his giant teacup on the table.
Hermione held out her list. "I know what some of these Horcruxes are."
Ron choked on his tea.
"Brilliant, Hermione," Harry said. "Let's hear 'em."
"What's a 'orcrux?" Hagrid asked.
The three traded looks.
Hagrid held up his hands. "Yer know what? Forget I asked."
Hermione turned the list around so the boys could see. A lot of things had been scratched out.
"The only ones who can ever find the Sword of Gryffindor are those worthy—so that's out. And when Harry showed us that locket, we all thought we had seen it before. It belongs to Salazar Slytherin. So I had a hunch he'd use the other two items as well."
"From the Founders?" Ron clarified.
"Yes—a diadem of Ravenclaw's, and Hufflepuff was always painted holding a gold cup."
"Okay, that's three. Plus the diary," Harry said.
"And that ring Dumbledore found," Ron reminded him.
Hermione straightened her sling. "Five."
"You know what I would do if I were making one?" Ron asked. "Put it in a giant snake."
Harry and Hermione shrugged at each other. "It's always with him," Harry said.
"So that's six total," Hermione concluded.
"But where are they?" Harry asked. Hermione saw him reach into his pocket. He carried the locket around with him at all times.
"I've heard rumours that the diadem is still in Hogwarts," Hermione said. She crumpled the list into a ball. "I'll work on it.
"The locket's still bothering me," Harry said. "I feel like I should know where it is."
Ron cracked his knuckles. "Let me at that snake. I'll take'er down."
Hagrid frowned at them all. "'Ermione, would you like some tea?"
"I would love some." She tossed the parchment wad to Harry.
Harry flicked his wand at it, setting it ablaze.
Since Hermione had exited the castle, it meant Severus had no recourse but to start brewing. It had always been a hobby—a well-paying hobby (if he weren't on a teacher's salary)—but the new workload from the Dark Lord was a little much. His joints ached by the end of each brewing session.
He kept the door to his lab open so he would hear when Hermione returned in the evening.
Not that it mattered—door open or not, she would always poke her head in.
Today, she used her usual refrain: "Need help?"
"Nothing that can't wait until tomorrow, as usual."
"Should I mark something?"
"Your arm doesn't work," he griped.
She laughed in surprise. He scowled over his shoulder at her.
"That's no reason for shirking!" she said, still too cheerful for his liking.
If his wife thought he was amenable to—pleasant conversation—he'd never have a moment's peace again. He saw how she carried on with the Weasleys at Grimmauld Place. No, he could not ask what she had run off to tell Potter and Hagrid.
"Alright, I'll ask again tomorrow," she said, still tittering as she walked away.
He cast the door shut and locked it for good measure.