Severus woke to the sound of crashing cymbals. He startled in his chair; essay parchments slid off his lap to the floor. He righted them with an irritated flick of his wand and glared at the Wireless on his desk. The Classical Hour had been playing a soothing Baroque piece when he drifted off.
He turned off the bombastic music and made his way to the desk. He rolled his shoulders uncomfortably as he sat to finish marking essays. He felt pained and over-warm; these short lapses into sleep always left him feverish.
He summoned a glass of water and scanned the seventh year's essays. They were replete with the expected banalities, but there were fewer inaccuracies than last year, proving that the children had indeed learnt something. Several talented graduates, and no great failures, would leave Hogwarts this year; he even expected Longbottom to pass.
Hermione Granger's essay was second to last. He read it with appreciation and growing unease. She had of late shown great passion in her work; her reports were no longer dryly academic, but informed by restricted texts and a palpable hunger for their secrets.
He sympathized with her desire to apprehend, and thereby exert control over, the world through words. It was the only choice for anyone who accepted that relying on bravery and brute strength was the fool's way or had neither quality to begin with.
There was much that would not be taught at Hogwarts while Albus Dumbledore was alive, but Severus made a practice of not inhibiting the students who sought it for themselves. Let the others be coddled, so long as those who wished to survive had their chance.
If he saw now that he had let Miss Granger advance beyond mere survival, into scholarship, well -- it wasn't as if she would be joining the Dark Lord. That option did not exist for her as it did for the others. She would never use her curses on innocents or Muggles.
The clock chimed midnight as he finished the last essay. He stood and took up his cloak for patrol. He left his rooms, warding the door. He checked location spells anchored to the Slytherin prefect badges; they were where they ought to be.
The halls were chill. Severus set his stride; paced swiftly through the dark on shoes charmed for silence. He took pleasure in the movement. His cloak swirled behind him in the still air; warmth built in his muscles, burning away the ache from his earlier sleep. His mind cleared and fell into a comfortable rhythm with his body.
He avoided the other House's prefects when he saw their lit wands. He didn't care to meet any of them. Many had begun to consider themselves and their heads of house the sole protectors of Hogwarts. He had deduced from their disrespect of him, and increased bullying of his children, that Slytherins were not part of what these self-satisfied students felt needed protecting.
His initial vigor began to evaporate as he finished walking the dungeons, took to the lower levels, and stepped outside to do a sweep of the grounds. As he finished methodically covering his portion of the castle, he found himself looking forward to a hot bath and sleeping draught with unwelcome desperation.
At last he came to his own door. He took down the wards and opened it with a whisper.
He stepped inside, removed his outer cloak, and was cursed to the floor from behind.
His chin struck the stone floor, snapping his jaw shut. A low whine built in his throat as his muscled seized and contorted. He convulsed involuntarily, and his head hit the wall. The impact dazed him, and for a moment he felt blank relief.
He was wrenched. He felt his muscles were being torn from their tendons. He drew air instinctively, in sips and starts. He couldn't breathe; he couldn't hold his breath. He longed to pass out.
A voice cried out. The curse ended. It's hot, frictive agony gone, he felt splintered and frozen. He lay quiet, twitching like a near dead insect. He sought a regular breathing pattern as he stared at the uneven stone floor, re-orientating and grounding himself.
Panting inhalations and choked sobs echoed in the room. They were not coming from him.
He flexed his fingers delicately and felt for his wand. He determined that his attacker had removed it when he fell.
Having taken full stock of his body, and discovered that there would be no lasting damage, he turned his mind to his attacker's identity.
What could he deduce from the method of the attack?
Well, it hadn't been the darkest of curses. Even so, his attacker had not let it run its course, cast another, or indeed shut the door; he could feel an air current. Severus listened to the wretch gasping and blubbering, as if he'd been the one assaulted. No, definitely not a Death Eater.
A student, then?
Tired of suppositions, he shifted painfully, and looked up at the weeping face of Hermione Granger. She stood just inside the doorway, holding her wand unsteadily. She was shuddering all over.
She glared down at him with her teary, red-rimmed eyes.
"I'm not sorry," she said, her voice sounding snotty and cracked.
Severus put his regained lung capacity to use. He snorted derisively.
"This doesn't mean I'm sorry," she said with more force.
He smirked. "You will be," he said, without rancor.
He cursed himself a fool when he saw her posture stiffen. She took a breath and steadied her wand, looking resolved. He felt an instant of horror when he saw her lips forming a tight "o".
Obliviate.
