The Advanced Potions was to start in less than five minutes, but so far only a Ravenclawian and a couple of Slytherins were sitting in the classroom. Harry poked his head through the door for the fourth time and turned frustratedly to Ron:
"Slughorn's still not there…"
After a sleepless night both boys were gloomy and concerned; however, the reason was clearly not the unfulfilled homework. They didn't intend to go to class at all – the last thing they were able to do at this moment was to sluggishly stir some kind of stinking brew in their cauldrons. Every time they closed their eyes, Hermione, pale as death with wet streaks on her cheeks and a bloody mess instead of hands, burst upon them. Everything was a living nightmare – their night trip to Slughorn; long hours in the Gryffindor common room spent talking in an attempt to distract their friend from her pain, waiting for the painkiller to start working… And this morning the unfinished potions essay was the least of their worries. They had gone down to the dungeons only to ask the Potions Master whether he had found a solution for Hermione's problem. But Slughorn wasn't in the classroom and the door of his office remained closed. This seemed strange. Being a bit timid by nature, their teacher preferred to spend his time, freed from lessons and meals, locked up in his private quarters, afraid to make a nuisance of himself to the Death Eaters. And he always opened his door readily, albeit with great reluctance. Even at night. And now, during the half hour leading up to the class, Ron and Harry couldn't find him anywhere. But the idea of going back to their tower with no news was unbearable. Hermione, who had gone to her bedroom at first light and hadn't come down to breakfast, would obviously prefer to receive encouraging tidings instead of a portion of grey, watery porridge, which after yesterday's DADA practical was especially hard to swallow.
"Damn, where the Salazar is he?" Ron hammered at the Potions Master's office without any tact. Despair, along with a sleepless night, made him even more short-tempered than usual.
"Hey, have you lost your minds breaking in like that?" a familiar voice said, and as if on cue they quickly turned to the approaching Hermione. She was a little paler than usual, but no longer looked like a failed experiment of an Inferius resurrection.
"Hermione!" they exclaimed in chorus, unwittingly dropping their eyes to her palms.
Noticing their impulse, Hermione raised one hand to the level of her eyes and explained:
"Two hours ago they simply disappeared. As if drawn back into the bone."
The skin on her hands was dotted with a myriad of small white scars, but in comparison to yesterday's horror it looked almost normal. Ron couldn't hold back an enthusiastic yell:
"Holy Grindylow! Completely disappeared!"
"Not completely," the girl grimaced, critically examining her scars, "but, given the speed of healing, I'm hoping these marks will also go sooner or later."
"Thank Merlin," Harry exhaled with relief and smiled quite idiotically. For a moment he really felt light and carefree, like the weight of the world on his shoulders had disappeared along with Hermione's wounds. This sensation didn't last long, but gave him the opportunity to breathe deeply for the first time in the last few weeks. How little it took to be happy – just to return to the status quo. Searching for Horcruxes, the potential confrontation with the Dark Lord – all of that seemed insignificant against Hermione being able to hold her wand in her hands without sobbing in pain.
"We wanted to talk to Slughorn and skip class," Ron said hopefully, "but since things have changed, let's forget about Slughorn and go back to the tower to get some sleep!"
"Are you crazy?" the girl frowned and folded her arms over her chest. "Do you want him to report to Carrow that we missed his lesson without a valid reason?"
"He won't," Ron drawled dubiously.
"Oh, yes, he will! He's too afraid of the new regime not to provide it with all-round support. And although he's certainly not a maniac like Snape or the Carrows, first he'll betray you, because of his cowardice, and then'll mourn long and bitterly."
"Hermione's right," said Harry. "Though, we haven't even written half a roll, when he requested two. But lately Slughorn's asked only those who raise their hands."
Ron had no choice but to accept his fate.
"Well, after all, it's not Snape," he mumbled. "I would never go to his class with a half of roll –"
"Have you heard about the fifth-year, Stephen O'Leary?" Harry interrupted him. "A Hufflepuffian Muggle-born? The whole school was discussing it at breakfast. Snape put him on detention last night, and this morning Stephen was taken to St Mungo. They say he had some strange nervous breakdown; he didn't recognize anybody and almost leapt from the Astronomy Tower. He was taken under 'Incarcerous', you know? Snape must have tried out something on him as well… Who knows what else Voldemort might need – maybe a potion that drives you crazy!"
"Or worse," Ron added, not realising himself exactly what he meant.
"Mary Jane Bishop also left – her parents took her home. For family reasons."
"Yeah, right, for family reasons, which are not related to Death Eaters testing an experimental dark potion on her!"
Hermione shivered, remembering the girl's bloody hands pressed to her face. Hopefully, she felt better, and the terrible effect was non-permanent. In any case, the Mudbloods were better staying away from Hogwarts and from wizarding Britain in general – perhaps Mary Jane's parents would be smart enough to vanish into thin air along with their daughter.
"Nevertheless, our ranks are thinning," she said thoughtfully.
"Whose ranks?" Ron raised an eyebrow in confusion.
"The Mudbloods'."
"Don't you dare –" Ron begun, blushing to the roots of his ginger hair, but Hermione shushed at him quite unceremoniously, listening to the voices in the classroom.
"Time to go – everyone is already there."
Her friend suppressed his righteous indignation and complied, muttering something about the lack of a book and the useless slug.
"Ask the professor to lend you a book," the girl cut him short. "I think after our night invasion he won't be surprised that we're not ready for the lesson."
There was the usual hubbub in the classroom – all students really were in their places, including Draco Malfoy. He only seemed to visit Potions and DADA, apparently believing that just these two subjects were truly worthy of a pure-blood's attention. Maybe now Voldemort required from his supporters not only unswerving loyalty to his ideals, but also a complete education, according to, at least, his own favourite disciplines?
Hermione, as usual, shuffled off towards a back desk. Not that Professor Slughorn hated Mudbloods with every fibre of his being, it's just these fibres were quaking too much at the thought of disobedience to the new regime. That's why as soon as a new idiotic anti-Mudbloods' decree entered into force, their Potions Master snapped into its implementation with a zeal worthy of the faithful supporter of the Dark Lord, along with the repentance of a Hufflepuffian stepping on a kitten's paw. Tormenting his whole sublime soul, he still put Hermione and Dean at the back row, and then, revelling in his sufferings, did his best not to ask them anything at all, otherwise he would have to call them by their first names and thereby injure his fragile mental state again. Hermione never resented him for that – after all he was just a frightened man, who, for a change, didn't want to fight the universal evil, but, again for a change, wasn't showing any desire to test excruciating potions on her. She cast a brief glance at her injured hands. Of course, the benefits of Slughorn's help weren't great – she'd figure out the necessity of taking a painkiller without him – but at least he had tried… The potential humiliation in the matter of the back desk didn't upset Hermione (in some classes it was even preferable to stay away from the epicentre). However, in the potions auditorium – dark, without any windows and lit only with a vague number of candles (which, according to Slughorn, was not a consequence of the former Potions professor's rumoured vampire nature, but only a precautionary measure: the bright light adversely affected the properties of some potions), it was almost impossible to see the board and the tasks written on it from the back row. Luckily, Slughorn's classes had a predictable program, giving Hermione an opportunity to explore the lessons' topics in advance.
Ron was emptying out his school bag in search of a quill (Merlin, it's one thing he never packed his textbooks in the evenings but the quills as well..?!). Near their desk Harry shifted from one foot to the other quite awkwardly and Neville-like, looking at his friend and waiting for when he finally scrambled up the contents of his bag from all the available horizontal surfaces.
Hermione breathed a sigh of obvious relief: of course, Potions couldn't be called a simple subject, but still it meant a couple of hours without a single Death Eater in range – and she had learnt to appreciate such respites…
And then the door leading to the Potions Master's office burst open and instead of a slightly hunched, stodgy Slughorn, the headmaster entered the classroom…
No, no, no, he did anything but 'enter'. He broke into, stormed into, flew into – yes, perhaps, just like that: he flew into the room, surrounded by the fluttering tails of his black robes, resembling not even a bat, a comparison with which was already a hackneyed cliché for a few generations of students, but a giant raven, similar to the ones sitting on the walls of the Tower of London.
Hermione involuntarily began running scenarios over in her mind – the headmaster's morning visit, especially in such a hurry, didn't forebode well. A new policy prohibits Mudbloods from being at any lessons at all? A small morning announcement: Lord Voldemort has acceded to the throne, therefore, anyone with less than two hundred percent of pure blood is ordered to be executed (Mr Malfoy, duck, the rest of you – 'Avada Kedavra')? Granger, for your unforgivable escapade in yesterday's class, you deserve an Unforgivable Curse straight in your face? Strange imagination she had after a sleepless night. Quite pessimistic…
Yet Snape surpassed her darkest fantasies – without even bothering to acknowledge the class, he approached the store cupboard in two steps (flaps of his wings?), jerked it open, slid a tenacious look at the assortment of the available ingredients and said curtly:
"Open your books at page one."
An astonished gasp went through the audience. Ron and Harry exchanged glances and dashed synchronously towards the back row – Hermione could've sworn they had apparated. One lightning leap and her friends were already sitting in front of her, humping their shoulders and trying their best to impersonate the furniture.
Despite the menacing notes in Snape's voice, the students seemed to be too shocked to obey his order.
"Are you deaf?"
Merlin, where is Slughorn? What did he do to him?
These questions, apparently, concerned everyone. Harry, out of habit, opened his mouth and even made a sound, which, with great determination, one could've distinguished as 'But, sir'. However, his suicidal lunge was nipped in the bud with a targeted poke of Hermione's quill in his back. Had he lost his mind?! Again stepping on the same rake – unlike Neville, Harry's instinct for self-preservation was completely absent!
Although the question wasn't successful, Snape turned his whole body towards the mysterious, wheezing sound… and froze in stupefied amazement.
The sight of a stunned Snape was, perhaps, almost comical, but Hermione had the strength not to giggle.
"Longbottom?" the headmaster breathed out, with difficulty restraining the need to clutch his chest. "You? In Advanced Potions?"
If only one knew the amount of pressure Augusta Longbottom had to exert so her grandson was allowed to study Potions this year. Professor Slughorn had agreed to let Neville back into his class only because he had no idea about Snape's pathological hatred of the Threat-To-All-Cauldrons, otherwise he would never have risked displeasing the headmaster. That's why a test confirming that the boy had been studying hard all summer and had caught up with the material he'd missed in the sixth year, and some tearful persuasions that a future Healer desperately needed his Potions NEWT were quite enough for Professor Slughorn.
However, since Snape was never notified of any of this, the expression now on the headmaster's face could well serve as an illustration for the book 'Magical Medical Emergency', in the section 'How to Identify a Stroke'.
The aforementioned Longbottom, slightly hunched, remained silent, not taking his eyes off the cover of the textbook that he shared with Ron. On the cover a gloomy-looking cauldron was seething with something disgusting similar to the colour of Neville's missing toad…
Harry, Harry, please don't look up! Even a perfect Polyjuice Potion won't save you from Snape's Legilimency! One direct glance and the Boy-Who-Lived will become the Boy-Who-Would-Be-Better-Off-Dead.
Harry seemed to mirror Hermione's point of view. Tensely snuffling and hiding his eyes behind a considerably regrown fringe, he muttered something unintelligible, among which was clearly heard only the word 'grandmother'.
"Merlin almighty," Snape groaned, not having received a full answer from the Gryffindorian, "spare me the details. Just tell me – who did you have to kill in order to enrol in the NEWT Potions class?"
Who did YOU have to kill, Professor, in order to take the headmaster's position?
Hermione could've sworn that this unspoken thought was in the air, coiling over their heads in intricate rings. She would never doubt Harry again, would never call him an idiot, even if there was a reason – because the feat of silence that he accomplished today, right in front of her eyes, had no price and no statute of limitations.
Malfoy suddenly relieved the tension, interfering into the dialogue with his usual aristocratic arrogance and asking, finally, the question that had almost cost Potter his cover.
"Sir, where's Professor Slughorn?"
Snape grimaced at that name as though he had bitten into an especially acidic lemon, then, leaving Longbottom alone, turned to his precious Slytherin and hissed:
"What a wonderful question, Mr Malfoy. I suppose the ex-Head of your House could now be degustating beers in one of Prague's many drinking establishments, or studying, in Australia, the impact of koala's earwax on a sobering potion… You are free to continue the list of those entertaining places in which Professor Slughorn may be. All I know for sure – he's definitely not at today's seventh-year lesson, and I doubt that we can expect his presence with us in the near future."
The Slytherins looked at each other dazedly.
"With your Head, Mr Malfoy," Snape continued, obviously missing an obedient audience during the time he'd been headmaster, "happened pretty much the same thing that happens with an Acorus root when a Woolly Foxglove is added into a potion… Could anybody tell me what happens to the above-mentioned root?"
Silence.
"Miss Granger? I'm astonished that your hand is not trying to break through the ceiling."
Hermione went numb with amazement, but the desire to give an answer to a teacher's question, fostered in her over many years of practice, overcame the initial shock, and the girl squeaked quietly:
"It disappears, sir."
"Professor Slughorn disappeared?" Pansy Parkinson gasped, and the flank of Slytherins started whispering heatedly, lost in conjectures.
Snape rolled his eyes, making a rather discouraging conclusion about the level of logical thinking of the students entrusted to him, and explained:
"Your Head has withdrawn himself from the path of magical education, Miss Parkinson. Regrettably I cannot share the details with you, since he has so thoroughly covered up his apparition's tracks, that, perhaps, even he no longer knows his own location at this moment. Not that I tried to apprehend him, I simply did not wish to force the laboratory door, and Professor Slughorn took the key with him in a hurry."
Galloping Gorgons, what news! Had it been their night visit that had driven the poor man to such a precipitous escape? He'd seemed to be quite pale even before they came…
"From today the vacant position of Head of Slytherin will be filled by Professor Amycus Carrow, and your teacher for the Advanced Potions will be, as you might have already guessed, myself."
Oh, in the name of Godric's red underpants, why?!
"Have guessed, Mr Weasley, and have opened your books on the said page!... Mr Weasley? YOUR OWN book!"
"I… forgot it, sir..."
"That's right," Snape nodded understandingly and shook his head sympathetically. "I do beg your pardon. I haven't taken into consideration who I'm dealing with. Before the next lesson I shall remind you with an owl and attach a photograph of the book, making it easier for you to find it. Ten points from Gryffindor."
With a flick of his wand a thick textbook whizzed over the Gryffindorian's left ear and swooped down onto his desk, angrily rustling its pages.
Inspired by this example, the students rushed to implement the professor's command, filling the room with the sound of rustling paper. Hermione was going to keep her mouth shut, but, when it came to studying, her prudence always abandoned her, leaving instead only a carnivorously chomping thirst for knowledge.
"Professor," she couldn't hold back any longer, "but we've already reached page thirty!"
"Have you indeed?" Snape's voice oozed with poison. "I'm lost in admiration, Miss Granger. However, you've made no allowance for the fact that since I am in the same room with Mr Longbottom and desperate to live to a ripe old age, I'd rather all of you, without exception, reread the first page that contains… what?"
"The title," Crabbe boomed, frowning at the cover.
"Safety Regulations," Hermione said hurriedly, not even having to touch her book to give the answer.
"During my absence you seem to have lost your habit of raising your hand when you wish to respond. Five points from Gryffindor. Who can name at least five rules? I'm not so naive as to believe that in seven years of schooling you could possibly learn them all, even though they are repeated each year. Mr Malfoy?"
Hermione watched gloatingly as the Slytherin winced, looked sideways at his neighbour's book, and finally replied in desperation:
"No, sir."
"I can see you also haven't made the effort to acquire a book. I must say you shouldn't follow the example of Mr Weasley – if his head, in the future, is to be used only as a target for Bludgers, yours, I dare to hope, will be put to a better use. No one needs an ignoramus, Mr Malfoy."
The words 'no one' were uttered with such stress that Hermione had no doubts who Snape was talking about. Malfoy, apparently, too, for he obediently hung his head and nodded in agreement.
"Mr Boot?"
On the Ravenclawian's face the desire to quote the rules was mixed with a stupefying fear of Snape. The latter obviously won because the lanky Terry, instead of the usual clear answer worthy of his House, could only mumble:
"If the fire under the cauldron goes out, do not light it again with magic – this will weaken the magical properties of the potion by 10 percent… do not stir potions containing belladonna anticlockwise… do not stir potions which contain ingredients of animal origin with a metal object… do not mix the extract of deadly amanita with the bodily fluids of creatures possessing magic, including wizards and magical animals…"
"What will happen if one does?" Snape interrupted him, ordering Terry to sit down with a wave of his hand. "Longbottom?"
"Ehh?" Harry looked back at Hermione questioningly.
"So, Mr Longbottom, what will happen if you add the blood of your adorable toad into a potion that contains the extract of Amanita Phalloides? Or should I say 'when'?"
Actually, sir, nothing will happen, because to take blood from Trevor you must first catch him, but since you are asking…
"Uh, there'll be an explosion, sir..."
"Is that an answer or a warning?"
To the credit of the headmaster's sense of humour it should be noted that the response to this innocent question was the harmonious giggling of all Houses – Neville and his dubious talent for destroying cauldrons had long been a well-known Hogwarts' joke.
"I'm glad you all find it amusing," Snape said in rather sepulchral tone of voice. "Now turn to page 37, the list of ingredients is on the board, take them from the store cupboard and you may proceed."
While the students briskly stocked themselves with the ingredients, the professor continued:
"Today we're making a 'Serpentum universale', also known – not to you, of course, – as All-Snakes Essence. I would ask you about its properties, but I'm afraid I'll hear that this potion turns a person into a snake, which my heart won't be able to bear …"
Hermione suppressed a chuckle. She knew how 'Serpentum universale' worked, but she was ready to vouch that Ron and Harry would justify Snape's expectations, and now they were, most likely, looking at each other in shock. The All-Snakes Essence was nothing more than a neutraliser of the poisons of all existing species of snakes.
"Even an idiot first-year could possibly brew it; therefore I dare to hope that at least one of you will be able to achieve a tolerable result. I must especially emphasize that the composition of this potion includes an Amanita… Put the ground hemlock down, Miss Patil, deadly amanita is a mushroom, making it futile to search for it in the herb section… with the letter 'P', Mr Weasley, as the main word is 'Phalloides'… Now, allow me to remind you all, once again, that this potion includes an Amanita Phalloides, and that means what, Mr Malfoy?"
"The bodily fluids of creatures possessing magic cannot be added into this potion!" Draco repeated the rule readily and, of course, immediately earned five points for Slytherin.
"With reference to that, if you feel like shedding a few tears due to the loss of your beloved Professor Slughorn, I suggest you not do so over your cauldrons. I highly recommend you take my advice seriously since Hogwarts is already relatively short on students for you to voluntarily reduce their number even more in such a radical way. The same applies to an irresistible desire to spit over your left shoulder for luck and inadvertently send it into your neighbour's cauldron, or to cut the ingredients directly over your cauldron with a very sharp knife. Are you grasping the point, Mr Longbottom?"
"Ehh, yes, sir…"
"I'm flattered."
Hermione was glad to throw herself into familiar work – she was always excellent at cutting, grinding, squeezing, measuring and stirring. Not that Snape was ever concerned about the level of her professionalism: she knew that Gryffindor didn't stand a chance of earning any points, but a properly brewed potion at best would save her from a detention with Snape (the story of Stephen O'Leary's fate was still too fresh in her memory), and at worst it was gratifying to take her mind away from gloomy thoughts, at least temporarily.
This potion contained surprisingly few under-rotten and over-rotten components, and therefore working on it was quite pleasant. The harsh scent of dry herbs suppressed anxiety, the warmth coming from the fire calmed her hands still aching after the night torture. The contents of her cauldron had already taken a canonical claret colour, when, distracted from her meditative thoughts, she was able to look into the cauldrons of her friends sitting in front of her. And was stunned. If Ron's potion had a very promising salad colour, Harry's, slowly but steadily, was turning from orange to red. Red! At the required claret, real Neville's potion just had to be blue, green, even black, but not red – Merlin forbid! This was a too serious blow to Longbottom's reputation!
"Neville," the girl hissed at the verge of hearing and poked her friend with her stirring stick in his back. "Neville, your potion is becoming the right colour."
"You think I don't see that?" Harry turned to her with panic in his eyes. "I've already hurled a double dose of Astragalus in my cauldron and, to be sure, put a handful of wild rosemary berries, and they are not even in the recipe!"
"Wild rosemary neutralises Astragalus – where's your head?!"
"Ten points from Gryffindor, Miss Granger. Have you deliberately seated yourself over there, from where the board is not visible, to prompt Longbottom, or are you hoping to blame your poor-quality potion for mixing up Thelypteris with Phegopteris?"
He was right about one thing – the board was really barely visible, and if Hermione hadn't read this topic during the summer holiday, now she would never decipher the components written by Snape's pointed handwriting.
"She's at the back desk because she's a Mudblood," Malfoy felt it necessary to enlighten the headmaster, "and you're supposed to call her by her first name, sir."
"Is that so?" Snape said imperturbably, folding his arms over his chest. "You see, Mr Malfoy, in the civilised world addressing by a first name implies a very close acquaintance, and I'm not going to denigrate myself with an assumption of being on close terms with a Muggle-born. Therefore, I'd prefer to continue distancing myself from Miss Granger by addressing her with her surname."
A fair bit of thought, quite impeccable… Though, Hermione no longer cared how one called her as long as one didn't practice the Unforgivable Curses on her. She drew her attention back to the problem of the wised-up Longbottom – Harry's potion was about to become inert, and then nothing would ruin it. Damn! She knew that last year's obsession with the opus of the Half-Blood Prince would lead him to no good.
"Gills! Throw some gills into your cauldron!"
"Twenty points from Gryffindor! Miss Granger! Levitate your belongings to the first row desk! Immediately!"
A Mudblood? To a first desk? You are a rebel, Professor!
Hermione, however, was more worried about Pseudo-Neville and his sensational potion. Fortunately, while moving to the front row, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed, with relief, that the contents of his cauldron were beginning to be shot with purple.
"What a phenomenal despicableness, Longbottom," Snape also appreciated the newly acquired colour. "Remarkable. You've really outdone yourself…"
Hermione didn't listen further. Her potion had reached the phase in which it needed to be stirred fourteen times anticlockwise, and she was muttering to herself the numbers, afraid of losing count. Three, four, five... After all, today's Potions was just entertainment in comparison with the previous day, even taking in account Snape… seven, eight, nine... One day, when it's all over – the search for Horcruxes, war, oppressive fear – she would make potions for herself. In the dark autumn nights she'd grind dried rowan berries into dust and cut sappy stems of starwort… just for pleasure… eleven, twelve...
…The anaesthetic potion given to her by Professor Slughorn last night must have been very strong indeed, how otherwise could it be explained that she practically felt no pain when the first spike broke through her skin? It was when she mentally said 'fourteen' that the pain swept over her like a flame – greedily and rapaciously. But now all she was able to do was helplessly watch a dark-maroon drop fall from the palm of her hand and sink into the depth of her cauldron.
She knew perfectly well what was going to happen next. Luckily, Snape at this moment was giving Longbottom's potion hell, which meant there was nobody in front of Hermione, only behind her back.
"Protego!" the girl cried out in a voice changed by agony. Spikes were shredding her hands swiftly and mercilessly, another minute or two and her wand would slip to the floor. But for now she was still capable of aiming a Shield Charm at her trembling cauldron and to hide herself and the whole class, along with the numb Snape, behind the powerful magic field.
Just in time… not in vain was the rule of prohibiting the mixing of amanita with the bodily fluids written in every year book on the first page and, for especially forgetful students, highlighted in bold. Her cauldron crackled at its seams (if it had seams, of course), howled in a thin and drawn way, and then an invisible force threw it up to the ceiling, and that's where, under the dark smoked arch, it burst in a massive explosion.
Rumbling, dust, yells of frightened students, Snape's voice bellowing out some kind of spell unknown to her – all faded for Hermione in the face of a blinding wave of pain that flooded her entirely, forcing her to drop her wand and grit her teeth tightly, holding back a scream. No! Please, not again! The hours of her nightmare rose in front of her – every minute of it – reminding, promising, and threatening. She could not bear it one more time… let alone infinite numerous times.
Hermione willed herself to open her eyes. The ceiling above her represented a stone mess, remaining in its place only due to Snape's most powerful spell. Large stones and fine dust loomed like storm clouds before the downpour. But more importantly, right there, under the former ceiling (or floor – that's a matter of perspective), hovered the astonished Head of Gryffindor and several horrified first years. The severe bun on Minerva's head unwound and now swirled around her neck like a snake.
After a few baffling seconds the students came to their senses, grabbed their wands and let fly a whole series of 'Wingardium Leviosa', allowing Snape to free himself from keeping the uninvited guests under the ceiling and concentrate on their safe landing. As if from a shroud Hermione watched how the bright sunlight penetrated through the gaping hole in the ceiling, making its way through the dusty veil... how Harry and Ron picked up the kids and put them on their feet… how the anxious and trembling Patil-twins ran to the Head of Gryffindor, grasped her hands, repeating again and again on the verge of panic: "Professor, are you okay?"… how McGonagall looked at Snape with unconcealed astonishment and disbelief, and spoke to him with those patronizing, almost warm tones that before the Astronomy Tower had always been in her voice: "Thank you, Severus"… how Snape headed towards her, Hermione, his black eyes shining with danger and anger:
"Have you lost your marbles, Granger?! Did you do that out of spite?! Are you possessed by Potter?!"
The girl remained silent, catching on to his voice as though a lifeline to keep herself from passing out.
"You deliberately ignored the rule that was expounded twice during the lesson! With your Gryffindorian idiocy you endangered the lives of others only to spectacularly demonstrate your protest! You will be punished so severely that nobody will ever even think of trifling with me!"
Hermione wanted to make an attempt to protect herself from a new detention but couldn't say anything – the waves of searing pain flooded over her as her hands, covered now with the long sleeves of her robes, once again turned into one massive wound. The students began to flow towards the exit, skirting her and Snape, the professor seemed to dismiss them, but Hermione didn't hear that.
Harry paused for a moment, coming abreast of her, unable to take his eyes off the bloody drops falling to the floor one by one, then bent down and picked up her wand – its handle also covered in blood. Hermione looked away, feeling like she was about to faint, and only now she noticed that the headmaster's gaze, sharp as a razor, was sliding over the tips of her tormented fingers which were visible from under her sleeves.
Enjoying it, aren't you? Were you trying to achieve this effect, Professor?
"You will serve your detentions with me. Every evening. Until I decide otherwise," he spat out and stormed into the laboratory.
Hermione slowly staggered towards the door. Her possessions, thank Merlin, had already been taken by her friends and she only had to overcome the eight steps separating her from the last student who had slipped into the corridor.
The door slammed shut in front of her nose as if from a sharp gust of wind, but the girl immediately recognized the magic. Looking back she saw that she was alone with the headmaster. Snape came out of the laboratory, clutching a dark blue glass vial in his palm.
No…
"I need you to drink this."
No. No! NO!
She was not ready for another battle – the pain squeezed all the strength out of her, leaving only a pale shell, only the echo of the Hermione who had fiercely resisted Carrow yesterday. Now she wouldn't be able to evade even 'Avada', except by losing consciousness just in time.
"I said drink it, Miss Granger!"
He loomed over her like a black shadow. Managing to gather her last ounce of strength, the girl dashed to the wall.
"No!" she cried out, covering her face with her wrecked hands. "Don't make me! Please, don't make me!"
Tears rained down her cheeks, not of fear but of fatigue, resentment and despair. She could not tolerate it any more – please, not a new torture when the old one hasn't finished yet. She lied, she'd been too hasty – she truly didn't have enough strength! Now, trapped in a vice of pain and horror, she was ready to beg to him.
For a second or two Snape's eyes burned her like a coal, and then he uttered casually:
"Petrificus Totalus."
Her whole body was paralysed, and only her hot tears continued to flow helplessly down her face. For the first time in her life, from the bottom of her heart, she really, really wanted to die…
Snape approached her closely, raised her chin with his index finger, opened her numb lips and poured a bitter, tart potion into her mouth. Then his thin fingers, covered with a net of small white scars – she knew where he got them from, she knew! – touched her throat and massaged it, forcing her to swallow a hideous thick liquid.
"Finite Incantatem. Your detention will take place at eight."
Without even looking at her, the professor crossed the auditorium; and the door closed with a deafening crash behind him.
Hermione couldn't say a word. The wave of pain receded, throwing her onto a stony shore – helpless, weakened, and gulping for air with a dry mouth. She barely managed to collapse on a chair beside someone's desk, crumpled from the explosion, hiding her face in her bloody palms. She knew for sure: unlike the night remission this one was real and forever… The fire, deeply hidden in her hands, had only quieted down before, this time it was extinguished for good. And now, sitting in the ruined classroom with a hole instead of a ceiling, smeared with her own blood, she realised she was crying with happiness.