Hermione knew she was having a nightmare. The events unfolding before were far too terrible to be real; her logical brain could spot that almost immediately. She wanted more than anything to wake, yet she remained trapped in a scenario of escalating horrors. It was only when she saw his cruel, toothy grin that she finally jolted awake, her adrenaline still pumping. The light peeking through her gauzy curtains indicated to Hermione that now was a good time as any to prepare for her day.
Nearly a week had passed since Hermione had first arrived at the school and her days were falling into a busy, albeit comforting, pattern. Her first task of the morning was to make a quick trip to the library. The Hogwarts library would always be her first home, but the archives at Beauxbâtons' own were quickly making their own place in her heart. The room, if you could even call it that, was three stories tall, each story encircled by a balcony and each balcony stuffed with shelves and shelves of books.
After frequent trips to this hallowed place, Hermione made short work of finding the necessary texts for her research. The hunt invigorated Hermione and she strode from the library, carrying her trophies, a precarious tower of books, through the hallways. Wandlessly and wordlessly casting a Tempus charm, since she could not see her watch under knowledge mountain, Hermione calculated that she still had enough time to run these books to her office before breakfast started and the chocolatines were all eaten.
When Hermione was on a mission, she tended to lose focus of the world around her. So, it was no surprise when she almost walked into somebody.
"What are you doing there, Jean?" came Béatrice's cheerful voice, breaking Hermione's wall of concentration.
"Just taking these to my office for later," Hermione responded.
"What happened to the stack I saw you carrying Wednesday?" the blonde witch asked.
"I finished and returned those already," Hermione said, realizing how ridiculous it sounded.
"Bastien and I were just talking about you," Béatrice segued.
"You were?" Hermione felt her ears go red. She had not even noticed Sébastien was there as well.
"Don't worry, all good things," Sébastien said.
"We wanted to take you out for a drink tonight to celebrate you coming to Beauxbâtons," Béatrice said.
"That... that sounds wonderful." Hermione felt that she could do with some fun and frivolity in her life.
"Excellent! Obviously me and Bastien and Phœbé are going, but I was also thinking of inviting other teachers too. What do you think?"
"Of course. The more, the merrier," Hermione responded.
"Great, we can talk more about it later."
Hermione excused herself and was once again alone in her thoughts. She wondered if Béatrice would invite Snape to this outing. But even if he were invited, she doubted he would accept. Hermione had yet to hear from Snape about their joint-teaching venture, which she supposed should have made her happy, but it just made her more nervous about the future. She resolved to solve this problem after a hearty breakfast.
Knocking on the door of the office closest to her own, Hermione wondered how she had not seen the man at all, especially since she doubted he was truly busy.
"Enter," came his stern baritone.
She loitered in the door frame, expecting some sort of greeting from the man currently bent over his desk. Hermione should have known not to expect cordiality from the Dungeon Bat. Perhaps she had been fooled by the distinctly un-dungeon-like appearance of the room she now stood in.
"Excuse me, sir. I hope I'm not interrupting," she started.
"What do you want, Miss Granger?" he asked without looking up from his work.
"I was just wondering when we were going to meet to discuss our plan for this year, sir."
"Plan?"
"Yes, you know: delegation of responsibilities, lesson plans, goals-"
"Alright. I teach afternoons Monday, Wednesday, Friday and mornings on Tuesday and Thursday. Satisfied?"
Hermione wanted to respond in the negative, to elaborate that she was looking for more information than that, perhaps even get him to share some words of wisdom, but she stopped herself. Snape was stubborn, perhaps even more stubborn than her, and she doubted any amount of protestations would sway him. Hermione realized how naïve she was in hoping they could ever share a pleasant, productive conversation.
"Sure" was all she could muster.
The dark-haired wizard may have nodded or given some other visual cue that he had heard Hermione, but she was not looking as she left, practically bolting out the door, and he made not a single sound. Defeated, Hermione weighed her options. She was starting to consider begging Madame Maxime to find her a replacement, but she also knew it would look poorly on her if she gave up before the job even started. She had to keep imagining this as a worthy challenge, an exciting opportunity, rather than the unfortunate situation it was shaping up to be. Hermione stopped on her journey to nowhere-in-particular to stare out a window, when she noticed movement out of the corner of her eye in one of the empty classrooms.
A person clad entirely in white, face obscured by a wire mask, was lunging methodically, arm outstretched, clutching a thin sword. Hermione walked closer to get a better look when the masked person seemed to turn and directly at her.
"Sorry if I'm intruding," she said, backing away. "Didn't mean to interrupt."
The person removed his mask in a flourish, revealing the tousled hair and brilliant blue eyes of a certain Potions professor.
"It's cute when you speak English." he said, approaching her, tucking his sword and mask beneath his left arm.
Hermione had not even realized that she was not speaking French, probably since her mind was still replaying her previous encounter. She cleared her throat. "Pardon me. I hope you did not stop because of me."
"Don't worry; I was almost done anyway."
"So, fencing, eh?" Hermione asked.
"Yeah. This particular type is épée. I fenced at university, so I was grateful when the headmistress let me teach the sport here."
"You went to university? Where?"
"I may not be a Harvard grad-" Sébastien must have seen the confused look on Hermione's face, because he added, "Béa told me-but I did study at a university called Cambridge. You may have heard of it."
Hermione felt a stab of jealousy. Before she had found out she was a wizard, she had wanted to attend Cambridge.
"Can't say I have," she said, continuing the joke in an attempt to hide her envy. "What did you study?"
"I'm the Potions professor, so I'll give you one guess."
"Hmm," Hermione said, scratching her chin, "Gender Studies?"
"Ha. Chemistry."
"How was I supposed to guess that?"
"I don't know. I guess you're not as smart I thought."
Hermione laughed, her previous problems melting away. "Nope."
"What about you? Did you do any sports during any point of your illustrious education?"
"Oh, no, I'm more of a book person."
"That's a shame. You were almost perfect."
Today must have been an uncharacteristic day for Hermione, because she heard herself respond, "well, you could teach me how to fence."
Sébastien raised an eyebrow at her. "You want to learn to fence? But I thought you were more of a book person."
"I could afford to get more exercise."
"Alright, I'll get you a jacket, a mask,-"
"Now?"
"No time like the present."
When Sébastien returned, Hermione donned the necessary gear. She touched the edge of the sword tentatively, testing its sharpness.
"It's dull, yes, but be careful. The metal can become jagged from use."
Hermione pulled her finger away the blade and slipped on her gloves. Sébastien began showing her the basic forms. Though he was a patient teacher, Hermione was a slow learner and kept forgetting how to hold her arm or bend her legs. Occasionally Sébastien would touch her to correct her posture and each time caught her by surprise. The more time they spent together, the more uncomfortable Hermione became. There was nothing untoward going on between them, nevertheless Hermione still felt her heart thumping and her cheeks growing hot.
Once the lesson ended Hermione did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Sébastien was her colleague and most likely only saw her as such. Moreover she did not come to France to fall in love, so it was best for her to squash these feelings before she broke her heart again. Putting her glasses back on, Hermione handed him the uniform and mask.
"Has anyone told you how beautiful your eyes are?" Sébastien said, as nonchalantly as if he were asking for the time.
Hermione froze, confused at first as to why anyone would compliment her eyes, when she remembered that she had started wearing colored contacts.
"Uh, no?" she said, rubbing the back of her neck.
"Are they green or blue?"
This question also caught Hermione off guard. When she had purchased them, she was unconcerned with the color, only that they fit and were not brown. She also did not make it a habit to spend too much time staring of looking at herself in the mirror.
"Oh, I don't know. They change color depending on what I'm wearing," she said, remembering something she had heard non-brown-eyed girls say.
Hermione turned away from his gaze, not wanting him to look at her irises too hard, lest he saw the outline of her contacts and wonder why she was wearing both contacts and glasses.
"Do you know what's for dinner tonight? I'm starving," she said, walking with Sébastien from the classroom.
After a delicious meal, Hermione followed her friends from the dining hall, out the front door to wait by a spectacular marble fountain. Béatrice and Phœbé were having a laugh about Sébastien's impromptu fencing lesson, which only improved Hermione's mood. If the two witches did not see it as anything more than an amusing anecdote, then perhaps she should see the incident in the same light. There was only one thing that could dampen her spirits now and that thing was walking towards them, cloak billowing. It was just her luck that he would be feeling sociable tonight. Much to her relief, however, he chose to ignore her and to talk to the wizard Hermione believed to be the Herbology professor.
The group began to move, Hermione moving with them, but lost in thought. She never thought that Professor Snape was particularly gregarious, but she supposed she did remember seeing him at the Three Broomsticks with other professors and what were the Death Eaters, if not a strange club. Did he have friends at Beauxbâtons? Were these his friends? Had she encroached upon his friend group? He did not sit near them during meal times yet he had readily accepted this invitation despite knowing that Hermione would be coming along.
The group stopped and Hermione felt someone grab her wrist. This sensation was accompanied by the uncomfortable feeling of being squeezed through a rod. As quick as the discomfort started, it subsided, but was promptly replaced by intense nausea and followed by an uncontrollable urge to wretch. Hermione had no idea where she was but her first instinct was to run from the people she sensed beside her.
Hermione only made it so far before she lost her dinner. Mortified, she scourgified the taste of aioli from her mouth, hoping no one had noticed her momentary absence. This, as she had expected, did not happen.
"What did you do to her, Bastien?" Béatrice accused.
"Jean, you're not supposed to do that yet," Phœbé joked.
"Was this your first time apparating?" Sébastien teased.
Trying to maintain what little dignity she still had, Hermione decided her best course of action was to join in on the friendly needling. "No, it's just that you smell so bad," she said, realizing too late how lame she sounded.
To her surprise, however, the group burst out laughing, save for Snape, of course. Once they had all checked that Hermione was okay, the group of teachers went on their merry way. Looking around, Hermione guessed they were in a muggle village. An odd choice, she thought, since they would stick out, but as they passed under a lamp post, Hermione realized that her compatriots seemed to have transfigured their clothes into something less conspicuous. Everything Hermione owned erred on the side of mugglish, so she blended in well enough in her simple black top and trousers.
Single file they walked into a medieval-looking bar at the end of the main road. Hermione glanced at the sign hanging over the door. Domaine Cavailles, it read. Béatrice led them to the back where they took seats around a wooden table. Overwhelmed by the extensive wine list, Hermione decided to get whatever the waitress recommended-a Bordeaux.
"So, Jean, by now we've already all hear about your adventures in fencing, but did you ever do any other sports?" Béatrice asked.
Hermione took a sip of her wine. "I'm afraid you've picked the wrong conversation topic for me; I'm rather unathletic. Of course, it didn't help that the only physical activity available at Hogwarts was Quidditch and I'm terrified of flying."
"Really? Quidditch was the only sport?" Sébastien said. "I played Quidditch professionally and even I am disappointed."
"Is that so? And what position did you play?" Hermione asked.
"Seeker," he responded with a cocky grin.
Hermione wanted to shake her head. Typical.
"For which team?"
"The French national team."
"Were you any good?"
"Well, we made it to the semi-finals of the World Cup in '98, so you tell me."
She did not know much about Quidditch but she did know which team beat them that year and Hermione had kissed their seeker.
"Impressive. And was that before or after your stint at Cambridge?"
"Was Bastien bragging about his education again?" Béatrice asked, inserting herself back into the conversation..
"Is it really bragging when she got her degree from Harvard?" Sébastien asked.
"Cambridge is older and arguably more prestigious than Harvard," Hermione said.
Sébastien beamed at Hermione. "Thank you. I'm glad someone around recognizes my superior intellect."
"Yes, but I don't think you were in school as long as Jean. Eight years, was it?" Phœbé chimed in.
"That just goes to show how smart I am; I did in four years what she did in eight," Sébastien said. "But in all seriousness, I had a choice to make." He looked at Hermione before he began again, "I could either get my doctorate or I could get my Potions mastery. Sometimes I wonder if I had made the right decision."
Sébastien's sudden candor seemed to stun everyone to silence, except, of course, Hermione.
"You're still doing research though, right? You're still making a difference in the world, no? You're teaching the next generation of witches and wizards. That has to mean something, right?"
"Yes, well, you always wonder how it could've turned out," Sébastien said, not looking at his wine glass.
"And yet we'll never know," Hermione said.
"Amen. I'll drink to that," Sébastien responded, perking up a bit.
After another glass of wine and being pelted with more questions about her past, Hermione was ready to leave, but she did not want to disrespect her new friends. Wine made her sleepy and she was worried she might start snoring. Nevertheless the interrogation persisted.
"Do you have anyone special in your life?" Phœbé asked.
Béatrice glared at Phœbé as if to say that those kinds of questions were off-limits.
Hermione snorted. "Not anymore, no."
It was only belatedly that she realized that that was not the correct way to answer-it only paved the way for more questions.
"Screw him. You don't need him," Phœbé said, to Hermione's surprise.
"Yeah, wherever he is, he's probably wallowing in pity as we speak, regretting ever doing you wrong," Béatrice chimed in.
"How do you know I'm the wronged party in this scenario?" Hermione teased.
"Well, we only just met you and we can tell that you've never done anything wrong in your life. Ever," Béatrice said, grinning.
"If I'm being honest, I doubt he's even noticed I'm gone," Hermione said.
"Unfortunately you've come to the wrong place to meet people-" Phœbé said.
"Oh, no, I've no interest-" Hermione interrupted.
"-believe it or not, but babysitting other people's children all day does not afford many opportunities to date," Phœbé continued.
"And don't even think about dating one of your co-workers. That can only end badly," Béatrice added.
The witches shared a knowing glance. Hermione knew they were thinking of the ridiculous notion that Snape was somehow pining for her. If only they knew, she thought.
Hermione was in danger of collapsing in her seat when they finally left. But after a pleasant evening, Hermione felt like she was actually making friends, a splendid feeling indeed.
The following morning Hermione woke feeling sore, likely a consequence of her regular late-night study sessions bent over a book. Combing her fingers through her newly manageable hair, Hermione thought there was no harm in spending another day in the same manner. She was still worried about her shared lessons with Snape and reading was the perfect way to keep her mind off of it. Come to think of it, she had not heard one word from him at the bar last night. Not that she was complaining.
Hermione looked over at the pile of books on her night stand, noting that she had read almost all of them already. She figured she could reread them-they were important after all-but she after had read about a bit about applied linguistics in one of her English as a foreign language textbooks, Hermione was curious to learn a bit more about the topic. Despite its enormous size, she knew she would not find any such books in the library, whose shelves were reserved for magic-related texts. While Hermione found learning magical, the curators of Beauxbâtons' library were less inclined to think so.
During breakfast she expressed her conundrum to Béatrice and Phœbé. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately-she was unsure how to feel about him-Sébastien must have had an hangover, as he was not present.
"There's a cute little bookshop in the little town we visited last night," Phœbé offered.
"No, Jean is looking for something a bit more specific, we'll have to take her somewhere else," Béatrice said with a wink.
"Take me somewhere? You don't have to do that," Hermione said.
"What kind of friends would we be if we didn't show all of the best places. And this fits with another plan I have been formulating. Jean, how many fancy gowns do you have with you?" the blonde witch asked.
"Fancy gowns? One? No, more like none," Hermione responded.
"Excellent! Clear your schedule, we're taking you to Paris," Béatrice said triumphantly.
"Paris? Isn't that a bit out of the way? What do I need a fancy gown for?"
"Why, Jean, haven't you heard talk of the world-famous Beauxbâtons balls?" Béatrice said, in mock shock.
"We hold them once a month. Some are even themed! Halloween is a masquerade," Phœbé added.
"And these are fancy balls?" Hermione asked.
"Is there any other kind?" Béatrice asked in return.
"I guess not," Hermione said with a sigh. "And you two want to go to buy gowns today? How many do I even need? One for each ball? Can I repeat?"
"Well, I suppose you could, but would you want to wear a winter dress to a spring gala?" Béatrice kept answering Hermione's questions with more questions. She felt like she was at a Socratic seminar.
Hermione could play this game too. "How are we supposed to afford this? Is there some kind of dress stipend available to teachers?"
"Just look at what Paris has to offer and if you're not satisfied, we'll take you to a closer, cheaper shop."
"I think you two just want an excuse to leave this place and go shopping," Hermione said, crossing her arms.
"No, we're doing this for you, because we care about you," Béatrice countered.
Hermione rolled her eyes in an exaggerated motion at the blonde witch.
"You know, It's not fair that we have to buy all of these expensive outfits. I'm sure the guys wear the same thing every time."
"They change their ties sometimes," Phœbé said.
"You're right, Jean, but they certainly don't have as many options as we do."
"Fine, but this bookshop better be worth it," Hermione said, relenting.
Once the three of them were out in the warm summer air, Béatrice gently looped her fingers around Hermione's wrist.
"Gonna puke on me, Gray?" Béatrice asked with a devilish smile.
"He caught me off guard! I am normally fine-"
"Excuses, excuses."
The trio apparated into a small alley off a bustling street. Hermione was not familiar with this part of the city but based on their rather ostentatious arrival, she figured they must have been in the magical part of town.
They joined the crowd. Hermione marveled at the variety of people going about the business. Wizards and witches from every corner of the world speaking languages Hermione did not recognize. She was beginning to rethink her initial apprehension about going on this trip. A cute baby in a stroller caught her eye, to whom she started to make silly faces, before being roughly yanked in the opposite direction by Béatrice.
"We aren't here to ogle babies, Jean. We're on a mission."
"Oh, but they're just so adorable."
"Don't tell me you're baby crazy."
"What? No-"
"That won't last long once you start teaching."
"Yeah, there's no better birth control," Phœbé added.
Hermione laughed, hoping that they were just engaging in some friendly ribbing. The last thing she needed was them to think she was desperate for a relationship so she could have a baby.
"Here we are," Béatrice said, finally letting go of Hermione's wrist.
This shop was the first shop in a string of many. At each stop Hermione tried on the cheapest dress she could find but nothing was tempting enough to make her to drop more than a week's salary on something she might wear twice. At the seventh or eighth shop-Hermione had lost count-she did not even try on the dress, just took it with her into the changing room, waited five minutes and gave it to the bored-looking sales associate. Plopping down onto an ottoman at the front of the store, Hermione pulled out her book. She was deep into reading when she was finally interrupted by someone shoving a bag in her face.
"What's this?" Hermione asked.
"Take it," Béatrice said, shaking it for emphasis. "It's for you."
"You didn't have to do this," Hermione said, blushing ear to ear. She cursed herself for not just buying a dress.
"Yes, I did. Consider it a welcoming present."
Hermione removed the tissue paper revealing a dark green material. She lifted the garment from the bag and held it in front of her. The dress fell to her feet. Hermione rolled it through her fingers, noting its slightly rough texture. She had no idea the different names of fabrics, but at least she could identify the lace that composed the shoulders and back of the dress.
"Do you like it? I thought this color would really bring out your eyes." Béatrice was looking at Hermione expectantly.
"Of course I love it! And that was really thoughtful that you thought of me, of my eyes."
"You're going to be the belle of the ball," Béatrice said, clasping her hands together.
"Béa, we talked about this!" Phœbé said, appearing behind Béatrice. "I was going to buy her the green dress."
"No, it was my idea, so I was the one who was going to buy her the green dress!"
"Oh, well. I guess everyone will be green with envy every time they see you, Jean," Phœbé said, handing off her own bag.
"Two dresses? If you guys were planning this, why didn't you just chip in and buy me one?" Hermione asked as she reluctantly took the bag.
"Just shut up and open the bag, Gray," Phœbé responded.
Hermione was pleased to see that this dress was long-sleeved and had a modest neckline.
"Uh, Jean, you're looking at it the wrong way," Phœbé said after a while.
Flipping the garment around, she saw a plunging neckline, which nearly met the slit in the skirt.
"Don't look so surprised! You're going to have to show some skin if you're going to even have the slightest hope of finding a husband," Béatrice teased. "You know Rogue couldn't keep his eyes off of you at the bar."
"Yeah, he was looking at you the whole night," Phœbé added.
Hermione tried to keep her cool, but she could feel the tips of her ears burning red. "That's because I was the one doing all the talking! That's the polite thing to do-look at the person who's speaking!"
What was wrong with these women? Were they just saying this to be funny because Snape would be the last person to fall in love with her? Why weren't they teasing her about Sébastien, someone with whom she interacted much more frequently?
Hermione gave an exaggerated sigh. "Can we go to the bookstore yet?"
Leaving the boutique, the three walked to the end of the road. Everything seemed normal at first until Hermione felt an invisible force-likely wards-glide over her. They had left Wizarding Paris and had entered the normal, albeit familiar Paris of summers with her parents. When she was a lot younger, she would beg them to take her into every bookshop that crossed their path. After a couple of summers she learned which stores were her favorite. Thinking about her mom and dad brought a pain to her chest, but she forced the feeling aside. It would be hard to explain tears on a joyous trip to buy her favorite thing in the world, so she decided to refocus her thoughts. She wondered if the bookstore Béatrice had claimed was perfect for her was one she had been to before. Hermione had not been back to the city since before her fifth year at Hogwarts, so things were liable to change.
When they stopped Hermione recognized their surroundings as the 6th arrondissement, perhaps her favorite since it was considered the city's cradle of intellectual pursuits. She may have not visited every shop in this district, but she was sure she had come close. Walking ahead to bask in the glory of learning, Hermione stopped when she saw Béatrice's finger shoot past her face.
"There it is," Béatrice said, pointing at a red storefront.
La Librairie Internationale read the sign above the door.
The shop was unfamiliar and unimpressive, Hermione remarked, but once inside she was greeted with the sight of rows and rows of shelves, packed floor to ceiling with books. She could not help the smile that spread across her face as she perused the volumes, which appeared to be organized by language. Going from section to section, she collected instructional guides for Dutch, Spanish, and Portuguese. Hermione knew that she had to stop when the pile in her arm had become untenable, balanced precariously in her arms. Walking to the front of the store, she looked around for her companions to no avail. She hoped that she had not spent too much time looking at books.
"Found everything you were looking for?" the cashier asked in English.
"Yes," Hermione responded, a bit put-out that something about her still screamed "not French."
Looking down at her feet, wondering if she would ever belong in this country, a book gilded with a map of France caught her eye. Les langues régionales ou minoritaires de France. Hermione surveyed her pile on the cashier's desk. She had not bought a dress and after all, what was one more book? Acting on a whim, Hermione added the book to the pile.
"Have you seen a blonde and a brunette, by the way? The ones who came in with me?" she asked as she handed her euros over.
The cashier only shrugged. Hermione collected her change and new bags and stalked from the bookshop. The books may have been excellent, but the service of La Librairie Internationale left something to be desired.
"Was it a success?" she heard Béatrice say, nearly giving her a heart attack.
"Er, yeah," Hermione said once her pulse had slowed. "Where did you guys go?"
"We wanted to get you another present," Phœbé said.
"I can't accept any more gifts. I'm serious. You've both been generous enough already."
"Well, that's too bad because you can't return it!" the blonde witch said, handing her a box.
Hermione removed the lid of the box to find her name-well, her new name-carved onto a nameplate.
"It's for your desk," Phœbé said.
"We figured you could transfigure one yourself, but sometimes it's nice to get muggle-made, you know?" Béatrice added.
Running her thumb over the engraved letters, Hermione felt a twinge of guilt. A small part of herself wished it said "Miss Hermione Granger," but she forced a smile. The last thing she wanted was to appear unhappy when her colleagues had been so generous with her.
"I know what you mean. It makes you wonder how they made it," Hermione said. "Thank you both again."
"We know exactly how they made it. We watched them carve it. With a-what was it called, Béa?"
"A laser, I do believe," Béatrice told them, a note of pride in her voice.
Eager to dig into her new books, Hermione turned in early that night so she could maximize her study time before breakfast. After breakfast she would have other work to attend to, but every minute before the meal could be devoted to language learning. Knowing no one would be bothered by her butchered pronunciation in the library at this hour, Hermione found a spot in the rays of the freshly-risen sun.
Hermione began with the Dutch book, reading over the pronunciation guide. The authors of the book seemed to have assumed that the reader would have some prior knowledge of German based on the examples given. She chuckled to herself, wondering what Snape would think if she asked him for help with some particularly difficult phonemes.
She had repeated the basic phrases to herself around ten times before flipping through the next chapter, deciding whether she wanted to keep working on Dutch or move onto the next language in her pile.
"You hate Hermione? Who's that?"
"Huh, what?" Hermione said, looking up from the book and at Sébastien, who was lazily leaning on the chair across from her.
"You kept repeating to yourself 'ick, hate Hermione' and I was wondering who that was and what she did to inspire so much ire."
"No, you're mistaken," she said with what she hoped was a convincing, totally-not-nervous laugh. "I was practicing Dutch. Ik heet Hermione means 'my name is Hermione.'"
"Ah. Makes sense," Sébastien said, looking thoughtful. "Although I don't know why you're practicing Dutch when you're not even fluent in French yet. Shouldn't you be working on that?"
"Maybe I would be better at French if someone did not only speak to me in English," Hermione retorted.
"Maybe I want to improve my English."
"Oh, shut up, Mr. Cambridge. Your accent is more posh than mine."
"Would you prefer I adopt an American accent? Remind you of the good ol' days?" he said with a Southern twang.
"I don't care how you speak, so long as you don't interrupt my study sessions."
"Fair enough," he said, turning away from her. "See you later."
Returning to her reading, Hermione smiled to herself. Sébastien wasn't so bad. He was at least someone to banter with. Clearly he was not finished bantering, because he returned shortly afterward.
"I thought I told you to not interrupt me," Hermione said, not looking up from the book. Then she heard the characteristic sound of a Muffliato.
"And I thought you wanted your true identity to remain a secret, yet here you are, in the library, using your real name. Whatever would possess you to do such a thing, Miss Granger?" Snape was not angry, but he certainly did not sound too pleased with her.
Hermione wanted to keep her eyes glued on the page but she gathered her Gryffindor courage to look Snape in the eyes, albeit rather sheepishly.
"I didn't think anybody would be here this early."
"And yet two other people were here. Listen, I may not care whether your quote-unquote cover is blown, but I honestly thought you were more intelligent than this. It's as if you want to be discovered," he chided.
"Well… I suppose it wouldn't be terrible if my friends found out." To be fair, she was starting to ponder when she and how she was going to tell them.
"Why even bother coming under a pseudonym then?"
"I didn't know who I could trust!"
"I don't know if you know this, Miss Granger, but the war's over. What about the school made you think you couldn't trust people? I never knew you were so cynical."
"Well, now that I've gotten to know them, I know they are worthy of my trust." Her argument was falling apart under Snape's intense scrutiny.
"And yet you haven't told them anything remotely true about yourself. That doesn't sound like you trust them."
Hermione opened her mouth to respond but was cut off.
"What are you hiding from everyone? What would you stand to lose if people here knew who you really were? What do you hope to gain by lying so flippantly?" he asked, quieter than before.
She supposed she could tell him her reasons, then he might understand, but could she trust him? He would probably only laugh at her. Before she had a chance to decide, he was gone, cape billowing behind him. Hermione wanted to yell after him "I know you are but what am I?" But she managed to bite her tongue. Why should she listen to him anyway? As if Severus Snape had a leg to stand on. Hermione was fairly certain that if she looked up "duplicitous bastard" in the dictionary she would find his scowling mug.
Checking her watch, Hermione was pleased to see she still had a bit more time to study. Picking up the next book in her pile-Spanish-Hermione returned to some much needed quiet reading.
Why does he care so much anyway? she thought.