Chapter Three
Day 12 ; Hour 12:00
"Focus! "
"I am focusing!" Hermione snaps back in the face of Severus Snape. Sweat drips from her hairline, and she holds his gaze for just a second before tearing herself away to pace.
"I need not inform you, Miss Granger, how utterly detrimental it is that you learn-"
"Again." she snaps, spinning to face him, wiping her brow and bracing for impact. "Hit me."
A scoff.
The last thing she sees is the ever-familiar sneer of her former professor before the throbbing begins. Her vision grows red, the color deepens, turning to a smokey russet. A crack springs forth from the upper-hand side, and her gaze follows, her mind spackling it shut as it grows. Her spider-wall, she calls it. Not terribly creative, but it's effective. A web made of brick, finely constructed to keep out the strongest of breaching spells… as long as she can keep up.
"You'll never be one of us," a distant voice calls out to her. "Weak, pitiful, uneducated, low class…"
Her concentration wanes a bit, she falls behind. Her will is shaking like an earthquake, ready to rupture the dam and spill forth. "Weak," the voice calls out once again, and she latches onto it. She latches onto the anger it feeds, pushing it to the tips of her fingers, vibrating along her forearms. Her knees give out, but her mind remains sharp, strong, impenetrable.
Before she knows it, the ground beneath her is shaking, tripping her up. Arrogant. She's dropping, spinning, her walls slide from view and she's lost. A mist forms around her, and suddenly she's back on the floor of the small cabin room.
"How long was I out this time?"
"Seventeen minutes."
Silence. She stands on shaky legs, reaching for the nearby stool. He's angry with her, so she avoids his gaze and slumps herself onto it, picking up a quill, practically stabbing the parchment with the razor-sharp tip as she takes down notes she'll have to burn by tomorrow. Snape is the first to break the silence.
"You need to stop putting all of your energy into the wall."
"I know."
"That is meant to be your first line of defense, and yet you're using it as your ultimate weapon. If you let it distract you too much, they will find a back door."
"I know, okay?" her voice is uneven, vulnerable. "But.. but I need to be able to-"
"This is not basic occlumency, Miss Granger. This type of legilimency is used as the last resort to force an extraction. One mis-step and you'll be thrown into St. Mungos so fast it'll make the Longbottom's trip look like a bloody tea party!"
His voice spikes as he slams something down on the table with a thud, spins around, her head throbs. She's weak, tired in the face of it.
"I'll be back in two days' time, while the others are out at combat practice. Be here. We'll be working on the offensive," Ripping open his satchel, Snape withdraws a small potion vial, setting it in front of her. "Get some rest."
"Professor?" she asks as his back turns, voice small. His footsteps falter, slowing to a stop.
"Why? Why me? Why not Harry?"
He's silent, and for a moment Hermione thinks he is contemplating a meaningful answer, but instead he huffs out an exasperated sigh.
"In all my years knowing you, Miss Granger, I have not known you to be a person who seeks out answers to stupid questions."
Day 1252; Hour 08:00
The past few days have gone by in a haze, like smoke gliding along glass. Her body is in shock, or maybe it's just her mere consciousness that's frozen in disbelief. Either way, Hermione isn't sure about the passing of time anymore. A minute feels like eternity, her senses are over heightened, and the stress of leaving her only family left alive digs at pressure points she's not even sure truly exist on the human body.
She's a walking contradiction. Numb, yet sensitive. It's a surreal experience, and if the young witch is being honest with herself, she's in no state to go poking around someone else's mind. Her own walls remain unaffected, she thinks, hopes, but the problem is that she can't even find them to verify. She feels lost. Echoing emptiness, an existential crisis.
Everything's fine.
It has to be fine. There's no room for things to be anything but. She'll take her time, ease into it. She'll act as though this is just another job, a task she must do to survive, because in a way it is. Maybe not dire in the way that dodging spells and curses had been, but it's its own brand of danger. His own brand of danger.
At one time, Hermione considered Draco Malfoy to be more of a nuisance than a genuine threat. A fly buzzing past her ear, sneering as she swatted. She didn't take him seriously in any genuine sense. A schoolyard bully, one of which she had been accustomed to in her early muggle life. Sure, there was a difference between Billy Cipes calling her a swotty keeno and the blatant prejudice slurs the blond prat threw at her over the years, but they were all cut from the same cloth.
Broken boys.
It hadn't been until the end of sixth year, staring down at a slain Albus Dumbledore, body mangled from the fall, that it really sunk in that Malfoy was capable of truly horrific acts. Harry had been there when he did it, watching from below as the Headmaster begged for not only his life, but for Draco's soul as well. Without a flinch, a bright flash spiked Dumbledore's heart and within minutes Harry was rendered unconscious.
An unknown spell, hit from behind. It left no curse or seemingly negative ramifications, but somehow her best friend had survived, waking up in the hospital wing a mere hour later with a raging headache and the school in a frenzy. All three of them were whisked off that night, thrown to a small cottage located somewhere in the Republic of Ireland.
The infamous tales of Draco Malfoy lingered, however. Stories of his horrors traveling thousands of kilometers across land. They called him The Reaper , and for some inexplicable reason, Hermione will be facing him for the first time in years, to perform a very intricate and sensitive bit of magic on his psyche.
They've assured her utter safety. She doesn't believe them capable.
Would muggles allow a psychiatric patient to perform an evaluation on a doctor showing signs of psychosis, no matter their former training? Probably not. Then again, if said patient were the only one with the tools available... maybe. The thought makes her head pound harder, although she's sure she backed herself into a false equivalency, but she can't seem to stop the racing thoughts.
Old Hermione would be able to focus on the task at hand. She would be able to withdraw her feelings, shove down her worries, and get to work. She most certainly wouldn't be hiding under her covers as if the devil himself were after her. Maybe he is. Maybe he's already got a claim on her soul.
How melodramatic, her inner voice chastises.
A firm knock from the front door of her quarters tears a groan from her throat.
"Wake-up call!" a muffled voice rings out. There's a pause, as if the intruder had been expecting a response… but after a slight hesitation, footsteps begin again, a knock at her neighbor's door just down the corridor has signaled they've moved on.
Hermione contemplates ignoring it, much more preferring to slide back to the comforting embrace of fleece sheets. Her eyes flick to her desk, land on the neatly organized stacks of books and blank parchment, calling for the messy school girl that's been long since dead.
"Can't bring back the deceased," she mutters to herself quietly, thrusting herself from the mattress and dressing in a haste.
Day 1252; Hour 10:00
"I need your badge, Miss Granger."
"Do you know how long this will take?"
"Much longer if you don't provide me with proper identification."
"I've already told you, I haven't been given a badge yet, I've only just arrived."
"It's policy."
Hermione huffs. "I understand that, I do, but I'm assigned to a time-sensitive case, and I really require the necessary files to adequately do my job. If you could just-"
"You'll need to get approval from the Minister if you don't have your proper identification."
"Fine," she sighs, tossing her hands up in defeat. "Is he in?"
"No."
Hermione grits her teeth, annoyance on full display. "Do you know when he'll be back ?"
"Monday."
"Monday? You've got to be taking the piss…"
A sweet smile from the receptionist, "I assure you, Miss Granger, I don't-"
"Oh, sod off…" she snipes, whipping around and making her way out the records office, heading left towards the library.
The smell of books has changed. The musky scent that had once brought her euphoric nostalgia now overwhelms the young witch, and she begins to back track when a purple tome lying alone on a rack just next to the exit catches her eye.
'GEMS, STONES, AND OTHER MAGICAL JEWELRY.' Certainly not the title that's calling to her, but the delicate drawing on the cover. A locket, chain draped around the spine. It's etched in silver, glistening. She reaches out, a seductive dream drawing her close.
"Hermione?" The voice cracks, but sounds familiar. Deep, raspy, tired. Fingers graze her shoulder, making her jump, her hand snaps to her hip to check for the concealed wand.
"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to startle you." The voice is kind, and soon enough she finds herself locking into eyes that match the same intensity. Lupin.
"Remus!" It comes out like a shouted whisper, and before her brain has the ability to catch up, Hermione finds herself throwing her arms around the tall man behind her. "Wh-what are you doing here? You're at the Entrypointe?! Last i'd heard you were living somewhere in the east end, running a pack for defected wolves!"
"Ah," is all he says, looking past her as if to purposely avoid making eye contact. Hermione furrows a brow before shaking her head.
"I'm sorry to ask, but is there any way you could help me with some identification? Seems like Shacklebolt may have forgotten to get me squared away before meandering off-"
"Actually, I've been sent to give you these."
The former professor doesn't say much else as he hands her a thick stack of paper concealed in an envelope. The seal remains unbroken, the package left unmarked.
"If you have any questions, I suggest someone with higher clearance. Your barracks have also been relocated, along with all of your personal effects. Head to the auror's office and you'll be shown your new living quarters."
His tone is dismissive, and his body language mimics this as Lupin turns on his heels to walk in the opposite direction. She wants to call out to him, wonders why he hasn't asked how Harry has been doing, wants to ask where Tonks is. Was she even still alive? Does he even know? Does the Order?
Day 132; Hour 18:00
A flower falls, cascades down to the river below just as the scene switches. A boy is watching his mother wash the dishes, she's softly humming as sunlight pours in from the window in front of her. A small fluffy-haired girl raises her hand in class, a large black dog rushes down a hill– the scenes pick up pace, flashing before her. She reaches out to grasp one, but the memory blurs, her head aches.
"You're doing it again." the voice feels as though it thunders, she winces, turns her head to blockout the artificial lighting above them. Her magic retreats, and she barely takes note of the small vial placed in front of her.
She uncorks it, tosses back the contents as she feels her headache begin to subside. Severus says nothing, merely watches Hermione chastise herself, heading over to the small nook in which she keeps her notes. Her fingers are stained, her hair is tangled in a bun on top of her head.
"You're trying too hard," he says. The tone is not malicious, nor is it soft and comforting. The words are said as though they are merely stating a fact. This annoys her, so she chooses to ignore it.
"You need to start off small."
Small. Flower petals, soap bubbles, quills and grass. Hermione keeps her eyes on her notebook as he regards her, using her quill to make small swirls along the page as she pushes her magic out from her, away from her body towards the professor.
Small. A quill of ink, a fly buzzing, a low hum.
Before she knows it, Hermione is pulled back into the memory of a small boy sitting in a kitchen, watching his mother do dishes as the sun shines over her. His hair is jet black and tied back haphazardly. He opens his mouth to speak to the woman when a loud slam causes them both to jump.
"Room!" the woman says to the boy. Fear takes over, Hermione can sense it as the small boy makes his escape down the hallway. He keeps his footsteps light, and just as he crosses the threshold, the boy starts to close the door, just as the screaming of a drunken man starts– and the meek pathetic sobbing of his mother begins.
Day 1254; Hour 20:00
She needs some system of organization, she's decided in a fit, tossing several stacks of parchment across the desk and thumbing her temples. The silence of her office is deafening, and she grits her teeth, holding back panic as she takes several deep breaths.
Tomorrow is her initial interview with Malfoy, and she feels ill-prepared. She's spent several days thumbing through his file that seemed to only get thicker as she makes her way through it. From a list of confirmed transgressions dating back to their school days, to snapshots of his childhood bedroom, to suspected involvement in current affairs– her brain has trouble holding on to any information.
Mudblood.
Her former bully taunts from the back of her head with a sneer. Even looking half-dead in sixth year didn't soften him. An animated corpse come to life, just to remind her that she was beneath him and always would be.
Squeezing her eyes shut, the young witch turns to her desk and flings open the first drawer, rummaging around for the small vial she knows is in there. Grasping the cork, she uncaps it and tips the contents back, feeling her panic subside. "Okay," she says aloud to no one. "One step at a time, Hermione."
Her wand feels lighter in her hand, and she quickly waves it, watching each scrap of parchment fly back into a neat pile on her desk. She had to start small.