Subsentio
She picked up her quill and stared down at the parchment. After a moment of thought, she began writing again, the scratch of the nib on rough paper the only noise in the deserted Gryffindor common room. The fire was low, and in the dim light her eyes felt as though they were on the verge of failing her entirely. But she was so close.
Arithmancy wasn't popular to begin with, and by the time the students of Hogwarts had reached their 7th year, only a handful of them chose to inflict the NEWT level Arithmancy course upon themselves. Hermione, unsurprisingly, was one of those select few. Perhaps 'inflict' was the wrong word - anyone who chose the course either had a very strong devotion to the subject or a deep and ultimately tragic need for failure.
Nevertheless, it was exceedingly difficult, and the image of Hermione, hunched over a pile of parchment in the early hours of the morning, was a testament to that. It wasn't as though this was a last minute rush to finish tomorrow's, or rather today's, assignment; that simply wasn't Hermione's style.
But it was due in a week. And still not finished. This gave rise to some worry on her part.
The length of time it was taking her was certainly not due to lack of trying - she'd been calculating and re-calculating since Vector wrote the equation on the board on the first day of class. And, in all truthfulness, it hadn't been assigned. More used as an example of what they would be taught. And it's wasn't really due either. Though Hermione knew in her heart of hearts that if she could solve it before the Halloween Feast, she'd prove herself as good as any pureblooded witch or wizard.
Of course, she never put it in as many words herself. But the subconscious has a lot to answer for in regards the true motivation behind any sane person's actions and choices in life. And even though she might choose to remain unaware of it, Hermione had always been desperate to prove herself - from the time she was first teased in primary school for being younger (her parents believed in Starting Early) and therefore more stupid than the other children, till she received her Hogwarts letter, and frantically devoured all her text books, terrified she'd be behind the other students.
Which was why she was sitting here, in the shadowy, silent Gryffindor common room with burning eyes and a throbbing head. But as long as pride and determination held common sense hostage, she wouldn't go to bed.
The silence was broken with a sudden snap. Hermione stared blankly at the parchment, at the bottom of which was an ugly blotch and the remains of the nib of her quill.
She sighed again, and, after a quick cleaning charm, straightened up in her chair, stretching out her painfully cramped muscles. It was time for a break - even aspiring geniuses needed to take a step back every so often.
Hermione climbed stiffly out of the chair and stretched again before picking up her cloak, smiling grimly at her popping joints. She wondered if Filch would still be prowling this late - probably not. Besides, 7th years were generally given a bit more leeway, and most of the professors knew of her habit of taking late night walks to the upper-level of the Astronomy Tower. She was competent and straight-laced enough to be trusted to neither get herself in trouble nor behave in an 'inappropriate' manner.
The last thought made her scowl as she climbed through the portrait hole. The Fat Lady was snoring in her frame, and didn't even stir as the portal clicked shut. Hermione wrapped her cloak around herself and walked as noiselessly as she could manage.
The walk was quicker than she had anticipated, and though the climb to the top of the tower left her panting slightly, when she had settled herself in a nook out of the wind and looked up, she knew it was all worth it.
The sky was a smooth and dark as black velvet, and hundreds of thousands of diamond-points of light shimmered through the atmosphere. Hermione smiled and began searching for constellations, noting the Great Bear, Orion, Cassiopeia, and the Serpent.
Her smile twisted a bit as she traced out the last one with her eyes, and she looked more sardonic than was normal.
"Slithering serpents," she murmured.
"An accurate, if rather mundane, description."
Hermione jumped up and looked around, straining to see in the darkness.
A slight rustle of cloth on cloth to her right, and then her eyes re-adjusted to the shadows. It was Snape, standing quite still, but far from the entrance to the tower, in front of one of the battlements. He must have been here before she arrived, and she had not seen him - the combination of her preoccupation and the darkness providing him with an effective cover.
She clamoured to her feet and contrived to look innocent.
Snape glided silently towards her, and she instinctively cringed back. Even though she was no longer a 4'5 first year, the man still managed to tower over her. His black robes and painfully thin frame probably helped exacerbate the illusion of extreme height, she noted bitterly.
Snape stopped inches away from Hermione, and she wondered if the phrase 'personal space' would have any meaning to him. He glared down at her.
"An early morning rendezvous, Miss Granger? Still waiting for your beau, I see."
Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
"No, sir, I'm not waiting for anyone. I just wanted to take a break from studying, and I often come up here when I want to be alone."
Snape raised an eyebrow. "It's 3am. If you are still studying, you have crossed the line from overzealous to obsessive. Go to bed."
Hermione bit her lip, waiting for the axe to fall. She wondered how many points he would take.
Snape sighed and rubbed his eyes. "No, Miss Granger, I'm not going to take any points. This time. But if I catch you up here again, this late after curfew, rest assured I will take 50 points from Gryffindor, and inform McGonagall of the unhealthy hours you are keeping. Now get out of my sight before I decide to give you a detention."
The last sentenced contained more exasperation than malice, but Hermione scampered back down the tower as quickly as she could, not wanting to risk it.
It was only after she had climbed through the portrait hole and was gathering her things together in the common room that she wondered at Snape's behaviour. Though not nice by any stretch of the imagination, the usual venom and gleeful spite had been absent. Considering the circumstances, he could have take a hundred points and given her three weeks of detention, and she wouldn't have been surprised - in fact, she probably would have deserved it. But instead, he had just seemed tired and annoyed.
Not one to ignore such a mystery, Hermione filed it away for further inspection tomorrow. Yawning loudly, she climbed the stairs to her dormitory.
The charmed beeping cut off immediately, and Hermione enjoyed 15 more minutes of blissful silence. Well, in theory she should have enjoyed 15 minutes of said bliss. Unfortunately, Lavender's alarm went off 3 minutes after hers. And it was far less easy to subdue.
Hermione muttered to herself as her roommate alternately pleaded for and demanded a few more minutes from the tiny, talking cuckoo that had emerged from the clock's case. However, the problem with pseudo-sentient, magical alarm clocks is that they don't take no for an answer. Despite the fact that begging, threatening or full-out screaming at her alarm clock had never worked once in the past 6 years, Lavender still felt the need to try every morning.
Hermione had, on far more than one occasion, debated whether to curse the blasted clock into inaction, or simply bash it into very small pieces with one of her heftier textbooks.
In all her early morning fantasies, the latter option always seemed far more satisfying.
As that particular daydream played through her head (lingering at the rewarding little 'poing' as that damned talking cuckoo was dislodged, spring and all, and went hurtling out the window at high speeds), Hermione dragged herself into the bathroom, stripped quickly before the other girls were out of bed, and stepped into a shower stall.
She turned the water onto full blast, and shrieked as a spray of cold water slammed into her like a 10 ton lorry.
The water heated up after a moment, but not before irreversible damage had been done to her nerves.
A quick wash, and Hermione stood in front of a steamed-up mirror, her hair still desperately fighting to retain its unruly curls. She murmured a quick drying charm, grimaced as her hair sprung into frizzy curls, and padded back into the bedroom. Lavender had finally pulled herself out of bed, and in doing so turned off her alarm. The little cuckoo had retreated back inside the clock, but Hermione shot it a malevolent glare nevertheless.
Parvati had also been woken up by Lavender's alarm - it was inevitable, really. They both staggered off to the bathroom, and Hermione dressed quickly and comfortably, as usual; jeans, snug t-shirt with jumper over top, trainers and school robes. She never understood girls (i.e. Parvati and Lavender) who made such a huge deal out of dressing in the morning.
You were wearing robes. No one would see you anyway.
Hermione had tried this argument once, in 3rd year. Apparently, logic is about as far removed from the life of the average teenage girl as the finer points of deep core drilling.
Needless to say, her opinions were not looked upon favourably, or with much regard at all. Eventually, Hermione came to the conclusion that if they were happy, there was no need to upset or confuse her roommates. Since then, she had never brought up their blatant and utter lack of common sense.
Or used words with more than two syllables in conversations with them.
Lavender and Parvati had finally finished their morning wash, and had returned to the dorm room, only to flit back and forth from each others trunks in their knickers, deciding what to wear, and giggling far more than was healthy at this hour of the morning.
Hermione sighed to herself, and, after swinging her satchel over her shoulder, headed down into the Gryffindor common room.
It's going to be a long, painful day, she thought.
Because there were so few students still taking NEWT-level Arithmancy this year, all four houses were put into one class. Even then, there were only 9 people - mostly Ravenclaws really, except for 2 Slytherins and Hermione.
It was one of those Ravenclaws, Stibbons, who had upgraded her mood from 'mild irritation' to 'murderous rage'.
Innocently enough (or so she'd thought at first), he had sat down beside her before the lesson and asked her if she had ever given any thought to that equation Vector had written on the board for them in the first class. Hermione, lying through her teeth, said yes, but it was a while ago.
Apparently, this was some sort of invitation.
The little bugger had whipped out a sheaf of parchment, and had begun trying to explain to her what he had tried. Was she supposed to care? Critique his technique? Correct his (seemingly non-existent) mistakes?
As page after page of what appeared to be correct and no doubt brilliant equations were thrust under her nose, her mood grew fouler and fouler.
After only 7 minutes, her day was completely ruined.
If Vector had been even a minute late, Stibbons would have been in the Hospital Wing.
For a week.
But the professor arrived exactly on time, as she always did, and class began.
It was a singularly horrible experience; the first class (other than Divination, of course) that Hermione found she did not enjoy. All she could think was that Stibbons, pretentious, inbred, socially retarded, severely-in-need-of-dental-work-and-acne-cream Stibbons had managed to solve the equation, while she hadn't.
After what seemed like days of endless torture, class ended. Hermione made a mad dash for the door and succeeded in eluding Stibbons, who would surely have tried to accost her again with his perfect Arithmancy.
Hermione hid out in the library over lunch, feeling too anxious and angry to even consider eating. She buried herself in one of the shadowy recesses, somewhere beyond the historical periodicals, where she knew no one would ever venture.
Time passes quickly though, when you're busy over-analysing all your mistakes and methodically cataloguing all your personal defects. It was time for NEWT-level Potions.
Hermione straightened her back, thrust her chin forward and marched out of the library and down into the dungeon. She was ready for anything Snape could throw at her today - in the mood she was in, she could take on a rampaging manticore and come out the victor.
No, the real question was whether Snape would survive her, should he choose her as the victim of any of his more charming personality traits.