Hermione was in the comfort of her sanctuary once again. The day had been
one of the most stressful yet. Lupin knew what was going on, and she wasn't
just afraid of academic consequences but of Snape finding out. She feared
the man. His dark eyes were always intimidating, and he never seemed to
blink or falter, whether he was in front of the class or on top of her on
his desk. In her eyes, he held some sort of superpower and the last thing
she wanted was him to be upset.
She knew better and that it was the last thing she should do, but the stress was driving her insane. Her anxiety level was at its highest peak and she could only think of one escape. She prepared two short lines of the shimmering blue powder and justified her actions in her mind by telling herself that if she was already caught, then what was the harm? She knew not to take too much; she had to attend an Arithmancy class in a few moments, and she hardly wanted to repeat making an ass out of herself. With the hollow quill, she inhaled it swiftly. He eyes contracted, heart beating faster. Perfection, starting at her belly, spread to her most outward appendages and left behind a dull thud of content as it did so. Oh, she loved this.
Feeling as if she was floating, she gathered her backpack. For some reason, the weight of it was not unpleasant. In fact, the way it was situated on her shoulder caused a good feeling, like stretching. Down the corridor she hovered off the ground, not feeling her feet contact the hard stone floor. The light shining through the stained glass windows at the end of the hall was delightful and intriguing. She stopped for a moment to gaze in awe at the way light was directed in a fashion that it created such a feast for the eyes. She loved the blues of the wizard's robe, and the orange of his hair, but most fascinating was the red color of the staff; it was breathtaking. She reached out to touch it, holding her breath. Realizing what she was doing, she forced her attention away from the window, bidding the wizard's magnificent colours farewell in her head and apologizing for such a hasty departure, but she hardly wanted to be caught staring at the same window she passed numerous times a day. She looked around, making sure no one had noticed, and continued on her path.
As she reached the stairs, she took a step back realizing that they had decided to switch once again. At the mere thought of stairs switching as they did, she giggled loudly. How absurd! Hermione wondered how she ever got used to it. She attracted the stares of two first year boys standing a few meters away and tried to muffle her giggles with her hand. They were curious looking boys, one of them blonde, the other with his hair cut so close to his head that he practically looked bald. She really wanted a closer peek and perhaps a chance to rub her hand over the top of his bald little head, but her common sense wasn't sedated enough to let her do so.
Instead, she climbed onto a set of stairs a few feet away and walked in a daze of giggles and colour. She reached a door and walked in. It took her a few moments for the silence of the class to register in her head. She looked up and saw a classroom of third years turn their head towards her and met eyes with her Head of House.
"Sorry, Professor," she mumbled as she walked out. God, how could she be so stupid as to walk into the wrong classroom? Oh, Gods, what if Professor McGonagall knew? She probably did, how much more obvious could she be with a sweat-dampened forehead and eyes opened wide as if she had gone mad. Hermione was suddenly aware of her heartbeat, and it felt abnormal; maybe she was dying. Oh gods, she was dying. No, she wasn't dying; she was just afraid. Of what? Of McGonagall. Did you see the look on her face? She knew. She definitely knew.
Straining her brain to concentrate, Hermione made it to her appropriate classroom and took her seat, careful not to made eye contact with Professor Vector. Her paranoia had come to the conclusion that eye contact was a window of vulnerability for her. To let someone look straight into her eyes would be a horrible mistake because by doing so, they would know all of her dirty little secrets that had made her so ashamed she had considered killing herself to preserve the tiny bit of honor she had left. Absentmindedly, she scribbled her quill on a blank scroll, enjoying the rotation of her fingers as she doodled small circles and random words that looked amusing, such as "epitome." What an odd word. Hermione remembered her most embarrassing moment as a child when she was in the last year of primary school. She was a constant reader, and in an attempt to impress some of her parents' acquaintances at one of their parties, she wanted to show off her extraordinary vocabulary by using the word in a sentence claiming that Mozart was the "epitÅme" of talent in classical music. Having only read the word and not connecting it with the word she had heard spoken, she was humiliated when they began to laugh at her.
"'EpitÅme?' You mean 'epitome?'"
"How darling!"
"Children are so precious when they try to talk like the grown-ups!" they giggled.
Hermione was so embarrassed, she ran to her room and cried at their mockery. That one experience was probably the biggest driving force in her obsession for perfection. It inspired the same feeling of gut-wrenching physical attachment to an emotion that occurred when Professor Lupin had her in his office only a little while before.
The sound of books and feet shuffling around her made Hermione realize that she had wasted the entire class period and hadn't paid attention to one word that the Professor had spoken. Embarrassed, she gathered her books and left the room. She opted for her sanctuary instead of lunch. She didn't think she could eat if she tried.
Once she reached her room, she sat down on her bed and stared at her hands in her lap, contemplating how she was going to handle the current situation. Lupin knew how badly she depended on Duplexplicis, and he knew that Snape was responsible for the distribution. The thought dawned on her that he probably smelled the strong scent of sex on her the night in the dungeon, and her face went red. In fact, she knew he did. Even she had smelled it on herself. She couldn't begin to imagine the implications this could have, but she did know that it wasn't going to go away. If Snape got caught, she knew he wouldn't settle until she had fully suffered the consequences of revealing their secret. Hermione suddenly felt scared and on the verge of tears. She wished it would all go away or that she could go back and re-do everything to avoid her current situation. How could she face Lupin again? Hermione felt like the only logical option was to climb under a rock and proceed to die. But before she could get a chance to examine her rock options, there was a knock at the door. Hesitantly, she got up and opened the portrait to see a pair of angry black eyes meeting hers.
Snape pushed himself in through the portrait and into the room.
"You unappreciative child, how dare you bring Lupin in to this," he spat. "If you think for a moment that I will let you get away with this, you are incredibly mistaken."
Hermione took a couple steps backwards as Snape kept approaching. "I- I didn't. I mean I d-didn't say anything. He f-figured it out on h-his own, I swear!" she cried.
He raised the sleeve of his black robe and shoved his arm in her face. She was eye to eye with a snake and skull burned into his flesh. She had seen it before. During their previous encounters, she had caught herself looking down at his exposed forearm with curiosity but he would cover it quickly if he noticed he stares.
"You see that?" he demanded. "I doubt your mediocre mind could possibly comprehend the things it has made me gone through, but I refuse to allow you to think for a minute that it hasn't had any effect. If I can handle the things I have already, I can handle you with no problem and no guilt, you little wench."
By this point, Hermione was backed into a wall, literally shaking in her boots.
"I want this situation with Lupin taken care of immediately," he said, grabbing a hold of her pony tail and yanking it back. "Otherwise, I'll be forced to take further action, and we don't want that, now do we?"
He let go of her hair, and she shook her head as tears streaked down her cheeks. Snape sighed heavily in what resembled a laugh as a smile played on his. "I'm glad we've come to an understanding, child. Now go look out of the portrait and see if anyone is around. I don't need to be seen here."
Obediently, she went to the portrait and poked her head outside. Noting that everyone was still in the Great Hall, she nodded that it was clear. He pushed her aside and climbed out the portrait, disappearing down the corridor.
She knew better and that it was the last thing she should do, but the stress was driving her insane. Her anxiety level was at its highest peak and she could only think of one escape. She prepared two short lines of the shimmering blue powder and justified her actions in her mind by telling herself that if she was already caught, then what was the harm? She knew not to take too much; she had to attend an Arithmancy class in a few moments, and she hardly wanted to repeat making an ass out of herself. With the hollow quill, she inhaled it swiftly. He eyes contracted, heart beating faster. Perfection, starting at her belly, spread to her most outward appendages and left behind a dull thud of content as it did so. Oh, she loved this.
Feeling as if she was floating, she gathered her backpack. For some reason, the weight of it was not unpleasant. In fact, the way it was situated on her shoulder caused a good feeling, like stretching. Down the corridor she hovered off the ground, not feeling her feet contact the hard stone floor. The light shining through the stained glass windows at the end of the hall was delightful and intriguing. She stopped for a moment to gaze in awe at the way light was directed in a fashion that it created such a feast for the eyes. She loved the blues of the wizard's robe, and the orange of his hair, but most fascinating was the red color of the staff; it was breathtaking. She reached out to touch it, holding her breath. Realizing what she was doing, she forced her attention away from the window, bidding the wizard's magnificent colours farewell in her head and apologizing for such a hasty departure, but she hardly wanted to be caught staring at the same window she passed numerous times a day. She looked around, making sure no one had noticed, and continued on her path.
As she reached the stairs, she took a step back realizing that they had decided to switch once again. At the mere thought of stairs switching as they did, she giggled loudly. How absurd! Hermione wondered how she ever got used to it. She attracted the stares of two first year boys standing a few meters away and tried to muffle her giggles with her hand. They were curious looking boys, one of them blonde, the other with his hair cut so close to his head that he practically looked bald. She really wanted a closer peek and perhaps a chance to rub her hand over the top of his bald little head, but her common sense wasn't sedated enough to let her do so.
Instead, she climbed onto a set of stairs a few feet away and walked in a daze of giggles and colour. She reached a door and walked in. It took her a few moments for the silence of the class to register in her head. She looked up and saw a classroom of third years turn their head towards her and met eyes with her Head of House.
"Sorry, Professor," she mumbled as she walked out. God, how could she be so stupid as to walk into the wrong classroom? Oh, Gods, what if Professor McGonagall knew? She probably did, how much more obvious could she be with a sweat-dampened forehead and eyes opened wide as if she had gone mad. Hermione was suddenly aware of her heartbeat, and it felt abnormal; maybe she was dying. Oh gods, she was dying. No, she wasn't dying; she was just afraid. Of what? Of McGonagall. Did you see the look on her face? She knew. She definitely knew.
Straining her brain to concentrate, Hermione made it to her appropriate classroom and took her seat, careful not to made eye contact with Professor Vector. Her paranoia had come to the conclusion that eye contact was a window of vulnerability for her. To let someone look straight into her eyes would be a horrible mistake because by doing so, they would know all of her dirty little secrets that had made her so ashamed she had considered killing herself to preserve the tiny bit of honor she had left. Absentmindedly, she scribbled her quill on a blank scroll, enjoying the rotation of her fingers as she doodled small circles and random words that looked amusing, such as "epitome." What an odd word. Hermione remembered her most embarrassing moment as a child when she was in the last year of primary school. She was a constant reader, and in an attempt to impress some of her parents' acquaintances at one of their parties, she wanted to show off her extraordinary vocabulary by using the word in a sentence claiming that Mozart was the "epitÅme" of talent in classical music. Having only read the word and not connecting it with the word she had heard spoken, she was humiliated when they began to laugh at her.
"'EpitÅme?' You mean 'epitome?'"
"How darling!"
"Children are so precious when they try to talk like the grown-ups!" they giggled.
Hermione was so embarrassed, she ran to her room and cried at their mockery. That one experience was probably the biggest driving force in her obsession for perfection. It inspired the same feeling of gut-wrenching physical attachment to an emotion that occurred when Professor Lupin had her in his office only a little while before.
The sound of books and feet shuffling around her made Hermione realize that she had wasted the entire class period and hadn't paid attention to one word that the Professor had spoken. Embarrassed, she gathered her books and left the room. She opted for her sanctuary instead of lunch. She didn't think she could eat if she tried.
Once she reached her room, she sat down on her bed and stared at her hands in her lap, contemplating how she was going to handle the current situation. Lupin knew how badly she depended on Duplexplicis, and he knew that Snape was responsible for the distribution. The thought dawned on her that he probably smelled the strong scent of sex on her the night in the dungeon, and her face went red. In fact, she knew he did. Even she had smelled it on herself. She couldn't begin to imagine the implications this could have, but she did know that it wasn't going to go away. If Snape got caught, she knew he wouldn't settle until she had fully suffered the consequences of revealing their secret. Hermione suddenly felt scared and on the verge of tears. She wished it would all go away or that she could go back and re-do everything to avoid her current situation. How could she face Lupin again? Hermione felt like the only logical option was to climb under a rock and proceed to die. But before she could get a chance to examine her rock options, there was a knock at the door. Hesitantly, she got up and opened the portrait to see a pair of angry black eyes meeting hers.
Snape pushed himself in through the portrait and into the room.
"You unappreciative child, how dare you bring Lupin in to this," he spat. "If you think for a moment that I will let you get away with this, you are incredibly mistaken."
Hermione took a couple steps backwards as Snape kept approaching. "I- I didn't. I mean I d-didn't say anything. He f-figured it out on h-his own, I swear!" she cried.
He raised the sleeve of his black robe and shoved his arm in her face. She was eye to eye with a snake and skull burned into his flesh. She had seen it before. During their previous encounters, she had caught herself looking down at his exposed forearm with curiosity but he would cover it quickly if he noticed he stares.
"You see that?" he demanded. "I doubt your mediocre mind could possibly comprehend the things it has made me gone through, but I refuse to allow you to think for a minute that it hasn't had any effect. If I can handle the things I have already, I can handle you with no problem and no guilt, you little wench."
By this point, Hermione was backed into a wall, literally shaking in her boots.
"I want this situation with Lupin taken care of immediately," he said, grabbing a hold of her pony tail and yanking it back. "Otherwise, I'll be forced to take further action, and we don't want that, now do we?"
He let go of her hair, and she shook her head as tears streaked down her cheeks. Snape sighed heavily in what resembled a laugh as a smile played on his. "I'm glad we've come to an understanding, child. Now go look out of the portrait and see if anyone is around. I don't need to be seen here."
Obediently, she went to the portrait and poked her head outside. Noting that everyone was still in the Great Hall, she nodded that it was clear. He pushed her aside and climbed out the portrait, disappearing down the corridor.