Hermione was pleased at that: she wanted to learn everything she could while here at Hogwarts. There were those, like Malfoy, who wanted to deny her as a witch because of her Muggle blood, so she worked doubly hard and let her marks speak for her as to her magical ability. A pity Ron and Harry didn't understand that: Ron was content to skate by, and Harry, while quite obviously powerful didn't develop his ability half as much as he could have.
Then again, he was honing his abilities in the more useful areas, like Defense Against the Dark Arts. He was tacitly expected to defeat the Dark Lord again: a heavy burden to have upon your shoulders, when you were a sixteen-year-old boy. She couldn't begrudge him a little slacking off in things like Divination, in that case. Then again, I'd never blame him for being lazy in Divination, she thought with a roll of her eyes.
Quietly she slipped out of the dormitory, and moved past a group of giggling first years on the way to Transfiguration in the hall. "Did you see how she changed into a cat last class?" one asked in awe. "Was that great or what?"
"Don't get ideas, Frank," a girl replied. "She says it takes you years and a lot of work to do that. Now come on, we'll be late, and it's pencils to worms today--she said it's important for exams!"
Hermione nodded to herself at that. She wondered how many Animagi there truly were out there: they knew from records that there were seven properly registered and all in this century: McGonagall, a group of three Slytherin Aurors in the '20s, a rabbit-Animagus in the '40's, and another two in the first decade of the century.
She also knew of at least four unregistered Animagi from Hogwarts in the '70's: Sirius Black, Peter Pettigrew, James Potter, and Rita Skeeter. That certainly indicated to her that the actual number of Animagi existing was much higher than seven individuals. She had spoken of Animagism to Professor McGonagall, wanting to possibly acquire the skill. McGonagall had counseled her to think why she wanted to take such a dangerous risk, and that she had best have good reason.
It was a consuming task, and a powerful risk. That was why it had taken James Potter and his friends so long to do it: they had needed to gain the necessary power and the thorough research before they would even attempt such a thing. They also had the reason: for their friend, Remus Lupin. She had yet to think of a good, useful reason to become an Animagus. McGonagall assured Hermione that she probably had the power, but there was no point trying something with a very high and painful failure rate for no cause.
She sighed thoughtfully. Her seventh year was coming up, and she wanted to do something profound, something difficult, something to really convince those who mocked her that she was once and for all truly a witch. McGonagall had offered to have the search for Animagism be a senior project of sorts, which would certainly boost her application to Lothlorien University, so long as Hermione could justify what good it would do. She was still thinking how an animal form could benefit the world at large. Perhaps a research project on Arithmancy would be more beneficial.
Right now, though, she was headed for the Slytherin dungeons. She knew Professor Snape was in his office hours right now, so she wanted to stop by and see what she could perhaps decipher of his motives in cheering her up last night. It was so out of character that it yet bothered her. The Snape she thought she knew would have been more likely to award Draco points for the deflating of her pride, she thought viciously.
She stood in front of the iron-banded oak door to the dungeons, sighed, and opened it. She slipped inside and headed for Snape's office. He wasn't in, which was odd. He was supposed to be available to students during this time: she thought how he must grind his teeth at that!
She finally found him in the laboratory, intent upon a cauldron in front of him, carefully snipping iridescent, shimmering red reptilian scales into small pieces with a strong shears. Dragon scales! her mind immediately told her. They were so tough as to need particular ways of cutting. We used Hebridian Black scales last term in the Apparition Potion, but red ones? A Chinese Fireball?
"What are you making, sir?" she blurted before she could help herself, her natural curiosity overtaking her. "Are those Chinese Fireball scales? That would be an Firebomb Potion, right?"
"Correct, Miss Granger," Snape said, barely looking up, "if I were using Chinese Fireball scales, which I am not. Fireball scales are a duller red and are more of an arrowhead shape, which you should know. I am also not using mermaid hair, which is a necessary component of the Firebomb Potion."
"So what is--"
He continued as though he had never heard her. "You of course know better than to disturb me while I am at my work, a point that I have made since your first year to all you lackwits. Five points from Gryffindor." That was typical Snape: to icily put her in her place and find some excuse to take points from Gryffindor.
She gave a small sigh. "Yes, sir."
"You needn't worry about your Potions exam, if that's what you're after," he said with a mocking curl of his lip, indicating a stack of papers at the end of the desk, positively covered with nearly gleeful red marks. "A ninety-eight, Miss Granger. You only missed the use of Grindylow bone powder also being used as a buffer to the acid of the Chimaera venom in the Solventus Potion. Your high mark is still quite secure, unless your precious Potter convinces you of the value of mischief rather than studying. I might add that he received a seventy-two," he said with a smirk.
"He hasn't swayed me in six years, nor really tried," Hermione replied quite crisply, somehow stung. "I only came to say thank you."
"Whatever for?" Carefully he dropped the pieces of dragon scale into the concoction, turning it to a vibrant royal purple and stirring it in a clockwise direction eight times before turning to her again. "Your thanks for what?" he repeated calmly.
"For--what you said last night." He looked momentarily stunned.
"Please, Miss Granger," he then went on, giving her a harsh look, "do not construe my words as some gesture of affection. I merely felt bad about my misconception of your situation and wished to rectify it. I may be a black-hearted bastard, as you are all fond of saying, but I try to rectify my mistakes." His lips pressed together tightly at that, perhaps at some memory, and she saw him almost unconsciously rub his left forearm.
She knew he wore Voldemort's Dark Mark there--had known since the end of fourth year when Harry had told her. "Oh?" she countered swiftly. "What about the time that Malfoy gave me those monstrous teeth? You did nothing to punish him that time, nor rectify what you said!"
"Miss Granger--" he hesitated. "It's none of your business," he said stiffly. "I am sorry. Now, if your thanks are done, will you please leave me to my work?"
She turned and went to go. She turned back at the door to ask if perhaps they were Welsh Red scales, to see him sitting at his desk, body tense, his head in his hands. Something within her told her not to disturb him, and she left, softly closing the door behind her.
Snape kept his teeth firmly gritted, waiting until Hermione Granger left earshot, then rolled up his sleeve, seeing the angry red of the Dark Mark slowly burning to black. He was being called, and Voldemort knew, as he had known for the past two years, that Severus Snape would not be amongst those answering the summons. That didn't stop his former master from playing with him, letting the Mark burn as long as possible, then suddenly withdrawing the summons.
That was Voldemort's way. If Snape was driven insane now, Voldemort couldn't continue to punish him for his betrayal. So long as he took him only to the brink of madness, he could toy with Snape like a cat with a crippled bird for years to come. And too, he must know what sort of mental torture it was to have to stay always in this damn drafty castle, aimless, useless. That was far more effective than twenty bouts of Crucio. He would break Snape's spirit; had been trying for the past two years. Cunning was Voldemort's forteā¦he knew Snape would not mind death. He would have willingly embraced it as a merciful release of the misery that was his life. It was far more effective to keep him alive but strip him of all meaning, all purpose. That was Snape's worst horror: if people had no use for him, he was nothing. He had nobody to keep him merely for himself.
Grimly, he headed for the Potions cabinet, whimpering softly from the pain, spreading throughout his body now like a malicious cancer. Carefully he withdrew the strongest Salicyclic Potion he possessed, and drank it in one swallow, ignoring the bitter aftertaste. The pain receded to a dull throb; occasionally still shooting sharp jolts of white-hot pain along his nerves. This was the best there was when he was summoned. He had learned to live with the ache for a few hours or days until Voldemort decided it was to his satisfaction to release him until the next bout.
He turned back to the Draig Galon potion and swore violently. It had turned from the rich purple that indicated a success to a sickly sludge brown after he had blended in the Strengthening element and left it to simmer. Another failure, he thought angrily. Ministry won't be happy about this. Already there were mutters from the Ministry that if Snape didn't produce something soon, they would stop him from wasting valuable ingredients on folly and rescind his licensure for restricted research. It wasn't because he was producing nothing viable: the Ministry had their own researchers hard at work, and failing as well. It was because he was Snape, and the Ministry had been looking for an excuse to let the ax fall ever since he had confessed to being a Death Eater and Albus Dumbledore saved him from Azkaban.
Tosca swooped in the window, dropping a scroll by his hand and heading for her perch, claws on a small rodent of some sort that she had caught. He read it wearily. Yes, Cornelius Fudge wanted an update on the potion that had required use of his Ministry's precious stocks of Welsh Red dragon scales, heartstring, and Jabberwocky wing. He sat down to make reply, thinking that there had to be something better he could do against Voldemort than explain himself to bureaucrats.
