Winter break vastly reduced the number of children wandering loose through the halls of Hogwarts, which allowed Severus Snape to return from his rounds by ten o'clock. Normally that hour would have him still combing the castle's more popular snogging locations, but for now, every tousle-headed moppet was safe in his or her bed, and Severus was free to do as he pleased. He was also omitting the additional circuit he usually made near midnight. For once the little monsters could run free and suck each others' necks without his looming disapproval and generous distribution of detentions. After the last twenty-four hours, he felt he deserved a break from the routine.
Almost exactly twenty-four hours before he had been summoned to Voldemort's side, and spent the ensuing hours watching as fledgling Death Eaters receive the Dark Mark and vow their allegiance. In return they were spoon-fed a custom blend of ambition, superiority, and self-righteous justifications along with a generous dollop of flattery and propaganda.
He was getting too old for all this, Severus reflected. Never mind the back-stabbing and tension and the political maneuvering, just standing in a clearing in the middle of the woods in December was more than he really willing to endure. A good dose of Cruciatus would have been preferable to five hours in a damp, biting wind. His joints wanted a hot soak and he was reasonably sure he was coming down with a head cold.
A potion took care of the sniffles, and a judiciously small measure of brandy placated his aching bones. What little his conscience bothered him over the dereliction of his duties as late night hall monitor was mollified by the small number of students in the castle and an overwhelming sense of ennui towards the concepts of duty and responsibility.
Tonight would be dedicated to one of his few pleasures – translating a potions text sent to him by a colleague from South America. Discovered in an Aztec wizard's well-preserved laboratory, it was written in an archaic alphabet. The language, however, was Latin, surprisingly, and a strangely formal Latin at that. The combination of those two factors indicated the text might contain encoded information not apparent to a superficial examination. While the puzzle itself was intriguing, the main attraction lay in the fact that it had absolutely nothing to do with Voldemort and the knife-edge existence that was his life. Of course, he'd rather curl up in front of a fire with a snifter of fine brandy and a woman who knew how to do more with her mouth than giggle like the inane youth of both sexes that infested Hogwarts. While he possessed an ample supply of brandy, the women had unfortunately been increasingly rare and practically non-existent in the past few years.
Dismissing the errant fantasy of intelligent, conversant women from his thoughts, Severus lit several lamps with a wave of his wand. Another swish summoned several reference tomes to the large table he used for his own demonstration work in the classroom, along with blank parchment, several pots of ink and a fresh quill. Finally, with something akin to reverence, he retrieved a narrow wooden box from a locked drawer in his desk and carried it to his worktable. The tiny brass hinges were tarnished to a pale green, as was the clasp, but it reluctantly gave way and opened. Careful of the scroll's fragile state, he unrolled it slowly and weighted the curly edges with several large, smooth round blobs of glass that both magnified and held down the delicate parchment with their weight.
In the high reaches of the dungeon ceiling, several feet over Severus Snape's head, Hermione Granger silently peered down at the scroll and wished she dared come a little closer to read it. The writing was cramped and the quill that had penned it must have come from a hummingbird. For a moment she wished Snape would simply cast a translation spell, but she supposed his caution was only reasonable. It would be a small matter to cast a self-immolation spell on a parchment that one did not want the wrong eyes to read; if there were any booby-traps in the text, Snape would be less likely than most to set them off.
Content to wait, Hermione let herself waft to one side while Snape manually translated the coded text to standard Latin, apparently preserving the formal voice of the text. She could tell when his concentration deepened to the point when the drafty chill in the room made no impression on him, as the guttering lamp flames were shielded with an absently-voiced "Protegera."
From her vantage point, she could see the evolving translation in Snape's distinctive handwriting. The recipe, if it was a recipe, appeared sloppy and lacked any measurements. It also included a huge number of personal anecdotes on a fairly boring year spent in an Italian monastery. Hermione barely stopped herself from snorting in response to some of the pithy observations Snape muttered to himself as he faithfully copied the parchment.
Afraid he'd heard her, Hermione watched the man carefully for signs he suspected her presence. He'd stopped shouting at her every time he found her in his classroom, and in return she'd done her best to respect his territorial claim. He never looked up, however, and his long body was still, as close to relaxed as it could be considering he was hunched awkwardly over the table. It was a bit odd, actually, as Snape normally radiated an intense, barely restrained tension as he paced the long halls and corridors of Hogwarts.
His hands, she noted, were steady when writing, but tended to tremble just a bit when he reached to refresh the ink in his quill. His narrow shoulders drooped, and his oily hair was tucked behind one ear. From her vantage point, Hermione could see the fine dark strands were thinning where he combed it out from a center point.
She could also see an old scar atop his head, disappearing into the black curtain. He reminded her, in that moment, of a wild animal stressed to the breaking point, where the fur fell out and the animal had trouble processing what little nourishment it could obtain, simply because its body was suffering from the tension and anxiety of a highly dangerous environment.
No member of the Order of the Phoenix had any illusions about the danger Severus Snape faced in his endeavors to spy on the Death Eaters who followed Voldemort. It was just that any sympathy that might have arisen was immediately suffocated by the man's unpleasantness. For the first time, Hermione wondered it that might have been deliberate, somehow. Surely it wasn't possible for any one person to be so unrelentingly beastly to everyone he knew.
And it was not in keeping with the type of person who would mourn the death of a student by keeping a midnight vigil at the foot of her funeral bier. Although the image was in keeping with the medieval mindset of the average pureblood wizard, Snape of all people would not have done such a thing for the appearance of it. According to the Harry and Ron, it had been well past midnight when they'd seen Snape kneeling at her casket, his hands on the white-draped sawhorse supports and his face against the backs of his hands. While she doubted if he had been so emotional as to weep for her, the simple fact that he'd even been there, out of the sight of others, hinted that there was more to Snape than the sum of his sneers and snide remarks.
Or perhaps he had merely been making his peace, coming to terms with his role in her death.
Sighing mentally, Hermione rose up through the stone ceiling of the dungeon to the hallways above. Analyzing Snape was a sure way to drive oneself insane, and regardless of the fact that she apparently had centuries ahead of herself, Hermione doubted there was time enough to unravel that particular man.
&&&&&
Over the past few weeks, a judicious culling from the bits and pieces left by forgetful students had left Hermione with a small collection of parchment, a fairly decent quill, and a pot of ink. She did not want to rely on Snape's good graces, assuming he had any, but scavenging was actually a diverting way to spend her time on a long winter night. It was also fun to read over the work some of the students left out, and occasionally far too tempting to write small notes in the margins. She never remained to see the expressions of those whose work she corrected, but her imagination left her giggling many times.
The abandoned third floor corridor held several pieces of forgotten furniture, and she appropriated one to use as her writing desk. She'd put off writing to Ron and Harry, but finally decided she'd rather know how their lives were progressing, even if she had no part in those lives. Her first paragraphs gently asked if Ron had made a decision on his career, and then how Harry was doing in his Auror training. Also included was the rather obvious news that she'd learned to move things, either because or in spite of the help she'd gotten, and the fact that she had finally taken her Potions N.E.W.T. and had not gone 'poof.'
Once she'd finished her letter, Hermione set off for the Owlrey to dispatch it. That task, however, was much harder than she anticipated. First, she needed to carry the solid sheet of parchment through the castle, sometimes sliding it under a door that had been left closed for very good reason. Then, once she'd gotten it to the high room where Hogwarts kept the school owls, she was confronted with an entirely different problem.
"Will you please come DOWN!" Hermione hissed through gritted teeth.
The owl she addressed merely blinked in consternation before launching itself from its perch and flying to the far end of the room. This was by no means surprising, as the last five owls she'd addressed had done the same thing. No matter which bird Hermione approached, it ruffled its feathers, bated wildly and refused to hold still.
Swearing did nothing to help the situation, but Hermione did that anyway. She was giving serious consideration to the notion of going to find a teacher or a student to do this for her, but did not really want to go that route. Of all the students who had known her alive, Ginny Weasley was the only one who would speak to her, and even then the girl was noticeably uncomfortable. Hermione did not want to presume on the friendship they'd once shared, and did not press the issue with her. Not that it mattered anyway, as Ginny was currently home on holiday.
Wanting to screech with frustration, Hermione was preparing to approach another owl when a derisive caw caught her attention. Rising up, she saw a flash of black among the tawny tones of the owls clustered on the rafters. At the end of the room, a large raven turned one beady eye on her, then the other.
"I don't suppose you'd consider taking a letter for me?" she asked, not really expecting an answer. In response, the large black bird shifted its wings diffidently before hopping off its perch and gliding towards her. It banked abruptly and shot towards the big window, only to land on the sill and gave her a look that plainly said "What are you waiting for?"
The black plumage and utter disdain of the raven's attitude gave her a horrid feeling. "Five Galleons says you belong to Professor Snape," she commented, resigned to disappointment. The bird gave another scornful call.
"All right, you work for him, don't you?" she amended. "You don't look like you'd agree to be owned."
The shiny black head bobbed once, and then the bird held out a scaly yellow leg as if conferring a great favor.
"If he yells at me, I'm going to tell him it was your idea," she warned the bird as she tied on the message. "I suppose you already know who this goes to?"
"Potter," croaked the raven in a fair imitation of the Potion Master's usual contemptuous uttering of that name.
"Yes," Hermione confirmed while trying to choke back a laugh. "Harry Potter, at the Weasley family home. The Burrow," she iterated.
"Weasley," sneered the bird, then launched itself out the window, its rapid caws sounding like laughter.
&&&&&
The end of term flurry and furious studying this year had not been conspicuous enough for Hermione to really notice, and the abrupt emptiness of the school caught her by surprise. A great deal of her time had been appropriated by the Bloody Baron, who preferred to be address as either 'Baron' or, preferably, as 'Your Excellency.' Hermione had found the Baron had a few other nicknames, whispered among the ghosts he ordered about, and she found herself using them more than once as he had enlisted her assistance in various projects in both the school and the surrounding countryside.
One memorable trip had to do with the vandals who had plagued the cemetery in a small Muggle village several miles from Hogsmeade. The local Muggle ghosts were on friendly terms with their neighbors and had turned to the spirits of Hogwarts for help. The Baron and Sir Nicholas had judged it an excellent introduction into the fine art of haunting and had taken Hermione with them to roust the intruders. The intruders had turned out to be nothing more than a group of teenagers who thought drinking beer and smoking endless cigarettes atop the family crypts was their idea of an evening's entertainment.
The ghosts had waited, watching patiently until the boys were knocking over a headstone, before launching a counter-attack. Shrieking and wailing, they appeared to the young men, who had immediately screamed and run full tilt out of the graveyard.
The Baron was vindictive enough to reach through the bodies of the retreating teens, giving them a chill they'd never forget, even though he complained for hours afterward of the unpleasant blast of heat he'd received in return. Hermione and Sir Nicholas rolled their eyes at each other while the Baron grumbled and shook his hand, but they agreed with his notion that the three of them should maintain a watch on the graveyard for several more nights, in case one of the vandals should pluck up his courage to return.
Sure enough, the sun was just going down one long summer evening two days later when a skinny boy heaved himself over the old stone wall. He stalked over to their usual gathering point, littered with cigarette butts, and defiantly lit up.
Encouraged by Nick's energetic sideways head twitches and the Baron's shooing motions, Hermione drifted towards the tree and the red glow of the cigarette. She circled the boy thoughtfully, noticing how her presence, albeit invisible, made the already tense teenager even more twitchy. She ran an experimental finger up the leather-clad back, and the gooey heat that clung to her hand was worth it when her victim startled violently and spun around.
The back of his hand bore an indecipherable tattoo, but it was the same symbol she'd seen chiseled into several of the stone markers here in the graveyard. Most of Hermione's sympathy dried up at that moment; the one thing she hated most was a person who victimized those who could not defend themselves.
Sweeping closer, Hermione let her unearthly chill hit the young man fully, who let out a sound somewhere between a squeak and a squeal. The fear poured out of his body, swamping Hermione with intense waves of emotion, and she suddenly understood why some ghosts would enjoy haunting. Fear and adrenaline swamped her body, intense emotions she had not felt since her death buffeting her like a high wind. The emotions as well as the power, to do to others what had once been done to them, to terrify and intimidate, was intoxicating, and she could easily see how that dual pleasure would be an almost irresistible temptation. Draco Malfoy, for instance, would love it.
Abruptly, Hermione decided to end the game. It wasn't exactly enjoyable, really, and the idea that she was indulging in the same kind of petty game Malfoy would enjoy made it that much worse. What was she doing, if not victimizing someone who could not defend against themselves?
With that thought in mind, she circled in front of the young man again and made herself visible. "Those things will kill you, you know," she remarked conversationally to the teen, whose eyes became huge. His mouth worked soundlessly, which had the unfortunate effect of letting his cigarette drop down the open neck of the flannel shirt he wore beneath his jacket.
"Wha--ungh---OWW!" he shrieked, as the burning finally registered. He slapped at his chest violently, knocking the half-burned cigarette out of his clothes. "Shit!!"
"Watch your language," Hermione snapped. "You may be rude in your own home, young man, but this is my home and I'll thank you to stop leaving your trash here." It occurred to her that she was channeling Minerva McGonagall, but decided to go with it.
"You will tell your ruffian friends that they're not welcome in this graveyard until they're buried here," she told him in no uncertain terms. "And if they come back before then, they'll be very, very sorry!"
"Y-y-yes, ma'am," stuttered the boy. In a convulsive movement he retrieved the dead cigarette from the ground before breaking into a dead run for the gates of the cemetery and the road beyond.
"Excellent, Miss Granger," Nicholas said as he appeared beside her, clapping silently. "Very well done, indeed!"
The Baron shot a surly look at his compatriot as he materialized, but shrugged grudgingly. "Unorthodox, but apparently effective. Nice little streak of ruthlessness, and you've already mastered the skills of a poltergeist. Good show, all in all. You've got the instincts to be a first class ghost, Miss Granger."
Hermione murmured a thank-you but declined to delight in this surreal bit of praise.
Once they returned to Hogwarts, the Baron accepted her into the ranks and gave her some of the same assignments as the other ghosts. As she was not an official 'house' ghost, she was free from certain duties to the students. She was, however, asked to shadow Hagrid on some of his trips into the Forbidden Forest, especially when the centaurs had been seen lately. There wasn't much she could do to aid the gamekeeper if he were attacked by anything he couldn't handle, but she could at least go for help.
Other tasks included patrolling the halls some nights, a precaution started after the Chamber of Secrets fiasco years earlier. Hermione hated it when she was assigned hall duty will Myrtle; while most of the ghosts turned a blind eye to the student transgressions, the miserable little ghost was the worst tattletale and delighted in getting students caught out in whatever mischief they were up to.
With school out for the summer, however, some changes were made. Everyone was more alert, with an eye towards the inevitable outbreak of true war in the wizarding world. Even the ghosts were concerned, if only because they enjoyed a relatively sedate afterlife at Hogwarts and didn't want the current administration to change. Delores Umbridge's brief stint as Headmistress had been unsettling to many of the denizens of the castle, not just the living.
&&&&&
Hermione was up late, or rather, early, one afternoon as she flew pell-mell down the dungeon corridor and made a high, wide turn at full speed to blip through the wall of the Potions classroom. She streaked around the table legs, through the doorway to Snape's office and disappeared with a 'pop' into the side of his desk.
Severus lifted his head from where he leaned over a pile of notes atop his desk and stared at the empty classroom and the silent wall beyond the picket lines of upturned chairs on the workbenches. With a frown he moved his chair back a few inches and stared accusingly at the massive ebony desk.
One black eyebrow went up, while the other remained in a puzzled crease. Gingerly, he reached out and opened the top drawer. Glancing inside, he saw only quills, empty vials, bits and baubles and a wide variety of items confiscated from students.
The next drawer down, when he slid it out, was packed to the brim with Hermione Granger. Her ghostly form was tightly wedged in the wooden framework, and her face looked up at him as he peered down.
"Shut the drawer," she whispered urgently.
"What the DEVIL are you doing in my desk drawer?"
"Hiding. From Peeves," she elaborated. "The Headmaster has some important ministry guests this afternoon, and he asked us to keep Peeves out of the way."
Knowing he was going to regret asking, Severus did it anyway. "And you lurking in my desk drawer accomplishes this how, exactly?"
"Peeves tag," she replied sensibly. "Two or three of us do our best to annoy Peeves, and then let him chase us in relays. As soon as he comes close to one of us, we go to ground and then another shows himself. There'll be hell to pay, later, but it keeps Peeves from knocking over the suits of armor when Mad-Eye Moody is wandering the halls."
Severus could just imagine what that notoriously jumpy ex-Auror would do if a few hundred pounds of steel were to suddenly crash to the floor behind him. Whoever he was escorting from the Ministry would be lucky to live through the flurry of hexes the man would no doubt throw about wildly.
Before he could reply, Sir Nicholas floated into the room. "I say, sir, have you seen Miss Granger?"
He opened his mouth to say yes, only to be distracted by the sight of Hermione's head shaking wildly. He shut the drawer on her promptly.
"No, actually," he lied smoothly. "I believe she streaked by a bit ago, but I haven't seen her for several minutes now."
Nick gave the Potions Master a half bow and tilted his head politely. It made a faint squelching noise as it separated from his neck. "Thank you, kind sir. I'm sure I'll find her very soon now."
Once the ghostly cavalier had gone, Severus opened the drawer once more. "I thought you were hiding from Peeves," he asked mildly. A stern flick of his finger indicated his desire that she vacate his drawer immediately.
"I was," Hermione replied as she smoked her way out of his desk, although she peered over the top of the desk to be sure it was safe before extricating herself completely. "Thank you, Professor. I really didn't want to talk to Sir Nicholas just now."
"Dare I hope Sir Nicholas will refrain from challenging me for keeping him from his lady love?" Severus drawled as he watched her brushing the creases from her robes. They weren't exactly the school uniform any longer, but the overly theatrical dags were gone as well.
Hermione sighed heavily. "So you've noticed, too."
To her surprise, Snape gave a dry snort. "Gryffindors aren't known for their subtlety, Miss Granger. I doubt it's even in their vocabulary."
"He is very sweet," Hermione admitted. "Unfortunately, he's not really in love with me. He's just likes the idea of falling in love with me. I rather recognize the symptoms, Professor," she added, somewhat sadly.
Severus only hmmed in reply as he returned his attention to the mass of paper on his desk, though he knew what she was talking about. He'd seen in many times in his tenure at Hogwarts.
"What is all that?" Hermione asked judiciously. Snape could be vicious when she interrupted his train of thought, although he seemed to have adapted to her occupation of his classroom.
"Student papers," Severus answered absently.
"They're in German."
"Yes, of course they are. They're from Durmstrang." He glared up at the ceiling accusingly, in the general direction of Dumbledore's office. "One of the Headmaster's more torturous ideas on sharing educational innovations among the institutions of magical learning."
Wisely, Hermione refrained from commenting. It did sound like something Professor Dumbledore would dream up, and never mind the proprietary feelings some teachers felt over their subject matters. Minerva McGonagall would likely spit like a cat if she'd been asked to share her lesson plans with Beauxbatons' Transfigurations professor.
"It sounds like a project to give out on detention," Hermione observed.
"It is July, Miss Granger," Snape told her, buried in his papers. "There's a shortage of students just now."
"Well, when I first realized I was doomed to spend eternity here in the dungeons it was a bit like eternal detention," she said with a quiet giggle in her voice. "I might as well be useful."
"How very generous of you," Severus drawled, although he did not miss the echo of the words he'd once spoken to her. "Not that it has anything to do with exempting you from dealing with Peeves."
"Exactly. And if I'm busy working for you, the Baron will let me skive off Peeves duty."
"Not to mention avoiding your paramour."
Hermione smiled brightly, and Severus made an exasperated noise. "Very well. Start with those cauldrons first, though," he ordered, indicating the far wall of his classroom, where forgotten cauldrons clustered below the utility sink like a crop of malignant black mushrooms. "Half the fifth year students leave them when they escape my classes at last, and they're always crusted beyond belief."
Hermione groaned, but stifled it when Snape gave her a sharp glance. "I'm dead, and I'm still scrubbing cauldrons," she groused.
"But you're useful, which is a state most people never obtain. Unless they're Hufflepuffs," he added caustically.
Rolling up her sleeves, Hermione snorted in appreciation but headed for the sinks.
&&&&&
"Miss Granger?"
Hurrying towards the Great Hall on the first of September, anxious not to miss the Sorting, Hermione nearly did not hear the voice that called out to her. In her abrupt stop, she missed the turn in the hallway and plowed straight through the wall, re-emerging several feet further down.
"Yes?" she replied with as much dignity as she could manage while she floated back towards the Headmaster.
"I nearly didn't recognize you, Hermione," Dumbledore told her, adjusting his glasses and giving her a brief visual inspection. The faded blue eyes still retained their twinkle, though it had faded in the past few years. "You've changed quite a bit."
"Have I?" Hermione glanced down at her robes. The droopy sock and schoolgirl oxfords had been banished to wherever ghost clothing went, to be replaced by demure slippers. The hair that had once been the bane of her existence lay in tame ringlets and curls down her back, pulled back from the crown of her head and fastened with a clip that existed because she told it to exist.
"You have, and I must say you look very charming tonight. For just one moment, I thought you might be the Gray Lady. As you know, she is the best dressed ghost within these halls."
Hermione could not help but laugh at the Headmaster's subtle joke; the Gray Lady was known for being somewhat vain of her appearance. "Why, thank you, kind sir," she responded, dropping a curtsy in mid-air.
"Actually, Miss Granger, it is I who wish to thank you," he said solemnly. "I'm quite aware of the difficulties you've faced in the years since your death. Your friends have left… and I'm very sorry to see that Professor McGonagall has been unable to accept your new status."
"Rigid thinking – it's a Gryffindor trait, isn't it?" Hermione parroted Snape, but smiled faintly to take the sting out of her words. "I cannot say it doesn't hurt, because it does, but I do understand. Really," she assured the Headmaster.
"Yes, I must admit you're right. Minerva has always been a bit inflexible, though she is as staunch an ally as anyone could ever wish for."
Hermione nodded in agreement. "I've missed her advice. She always gave such sensible suggestions."
"She did finally agree to add your Potions score to your final transcripts, you know," Dumbledore told her. "Severus brought it up in every staff meeting for weeks."
"Did he really?"
"Yes. He finally threatened to go over her head and file a formal complaint to myself," the Headmaster added.
"Oh. That was – nice," Hermione hedged. "I thought he'd probably submit it, but I wasn't sure it would really happen."
Dumbledore peered over his glasses. "Severus Snape has always been a man of his word, Hermione. I can think of only a very few times when he has not kept a promise he's made. He's also not a man to disregard the efforts you went to in overcoming the difficulties you faced in your current condition."
"He never did before," Hermione murmured.
"I think you misunderstand the difference," the old man told her. "Severus appreciates the struggle for excellence, not those to whom success comes easily."
Hermione frowned. Privately, she wondered if that was one of the reasons Snape had hated the Marauders so; Harry's father and Sirius Black had apparently been the golden boys of Hogwarts during their school years. It wasn't a thought she wanted to share with the Headmaster, considering those two men were now dead. Instead, she focused on the fact that Dumbledore was speaking to her as an adult, rather than the child she had been. It was gratifying to be given that honor, since she no longer felt like a student, and very much appreciated not being treated as one. With that in mind, she chose her next words with care.
"You care about him, don't you?"
"Certainly. I once failed Severus, to my great shame, and nearly lost him. Since he returned I've done my best to treat him like a son. Unfortunately, there are things a son does not always wish to discuss with his father. Which is why, Miss Granger, I'm very grateful that he has another person to talk to."
"I know really think I'm someone he talks to. He orders me around, and he shouts at me, but we seldom really talk about anything."
"That is more than he's had in a very long time," Dumbledore assured her. "Your death hit him harder than you know, Miss Granger. He made a vow to protect the students in this school."
"Harry and Ron told me he mourned for me," she admitted quietly. "It would be easier if he would show that part of himself to the world."
"Perhaps," came the Headmaster's non-committal reply. "Perhaps he does not realize that part of himself really exists. As you have no doubt discovered, the way you perceive yourself is not always how others see you. I myself, for example, am always rather surprised to see that old man in the mirror each morning."
Hermione giggled, as he had intended.
"Now, Miss Granger, I think we'd best get moving. We can't have a Sorting without the Headmaster in attendance. What would the students say?"
&&&&&
Once the school year started, Hermione noticed there were some differences in her status as a ghost. It had now been more than two years since her death, and that fact along with the change in her appearance kept the students from remembering that she had once been a part of their number. The newer students especially were more inclined to appeal to her for help.
She found herself giving advice to many of the First Years, such as directions to their classrooms, or the bathrooms, and the one thing they needed to learn immediately, which was to never, ever trust Peeves. "He's pure mischief and bad temper, all in one," she told them, and the small children all nodded gravely, wide-eyed and wary.
Additional visitors to the castle came that fall, most having to do with the struggle against Lord Voldemort. Some, however, were not visiting to be helpful. Some weeks after Severus Snape had finally finished classifying and documenting the potion that had cost Hermione her life, the Ministry of Magic descended on Dumbledore to investigate this possible breach of ethical behavior.
More than a little interested in the outcome of the meeting, Hermione settled in Dumbledore's office and listened while the wily Headmaster plied his visitors with tea, lemon sherbets, and his own brand of daffy charm. Once or twice she caught him looking straight at her, even though she remained invisible, but he made no indication he wished her to leave. Snape, seated to one side of the room, caught his superior glancing in Hermione's corner and frowned thoughtfully, but did not bring up the subject in conversation.
After extensive arguing, the suspicious officials were placated and finally agreed it was in the best interests of public health and education to have the deadly potion thoroughly researched. Rather than ending the inquisition, however, the one witch in the group, who had been the first to dismiss the charges against Snape, immediately began question Dumbledore over his plans to resist He Who Must Not Be Named. The Headmaster was finally forced to claim Ministry secrecy to stop the woman's non-stop barrage. The witch bristled and tried to imply that, as a member of the Ministry, she was entitled to know everything he had planned.
Hermione was certain she would have hexed the woman ages ago and had done with it, but Dumbledore managed to foist her off on Snape as he escorted the other members of the group towards the front hall. Hermione trailed behind, barely listening, as the woman extolled the shortcomings of the soft-bellied fools running the Ministry, and how much better things would run if they, fellow Slytherins, had charge of government.
She paid no particular attention as Snape murmured, "Yes, of course, Madame Fitz Herbert."
"That's Hornby-Fitz Herbert," the bombastic woman retorted. "The Hornby family goes back nearly as far as yours does, Snape. Show a little respect."
The name rattled around Hermione's mind for a long moment before settling with a plunk in the middle of her consciousness. With an abrupt pop, she materialized and confronted the witch.
"Your name is Hornby? As in Olive Hornby? The same Olive Hornby that used to attend here, some fifty years ago?"
The dumpy woman drew herself up. "I am," she answered proudly. "And what could you possibly care? I don't remember you being a ghost here in my time, but I hadn't at that time learned to pay attention to such trivialities."
Hermione's eyes narrowed for a fraction of a moment before she smiled sweetly. "Would you spare a few moments of your time and wait for me?" she asked, gritting her teeth with the effort of being friendly. "Professor Snape will wait with you, I think. Do you mind, Professor?"
"Not at all," Severus answered, throwing Hermione a sharp glance that as much as said it had better be good, whatever it was.
Hermione plunged through the castle until she reached the girl's defunct bathroom. "Myrtle!" she called sharply, listening for a gurgle in the pipes. The water swirled out onto the floor from Myrtle's stall.
"What do you want?" Myrtle asked sullenly from inside the toilet, her voice echoing off the ceramic fixtures.
"There's someone here at Hogwarts you need to see," Hermione said firmly.
"I don't need to see anyone," Myrtle whined. "I just want to be left alone."
Hermione stuck her head through the stall door, a complete breach of etiquette among ghosts. "Myrtle Buckram! You come with me right now, or I'll make your afterlife so bloody miserable you'll think Peeves is better company!"
Seated on the back of the toilet, Myrtle wilted under Hermione's scolding.
"Why?" she pouted. "I'm just fine right here. None of the other ghosts want to be my friends, and you only boss me around."
"Please trust me, Myrtle, just this once," Hermione coaxed. "I promise you you'll like this."
"Why should you care?"
"Didn't I always come to talk to you, even when I was alive? Isn't that worth anything?"
Myrtle twisted her shoe in one of the puddles on the toilet seat. "Oh, very well."
With Myrtle trailing behind, Hermione swooped back through the walls and down towards the central portion of the castle. They found Professor Snape listening to a non-stop monologue of what exactly was wrong with the state of child education in wizarding England, and looked to be only a few moments away from hexing Olive Hornby-Fitz Herbert with a lip-locking curse that would take days to counteract.
"Thank you, Professor," she told him fervently. He nodded in acknowledgement. "I had to fetch something from the girl's bathroom."
The faintly puzzled expression on Severus' face changed to comprehension, before his eyelids drooped down over a gleam of anticipation. With a subtle side-step, he removed himself from the immediate vicinity of the confrontation about to take place.
"Why in the name of all that's magic do you want to show me something from a bathroom?" Madame Hornby–Fitz Herbert asked, sniffing in disdain. "It sounds more like some juvenile prank, and I don't intend to stand for any nonsense!"
"No, actually, I wanted to show you to someone. Oh, Myrtle!" she called over her shoulder to the younger ghost, who had fallen behind when she'd perceived the mortals in the hallway. "Come here!"
"What makes them so important I had to leave my toilet?" she asked suspiciously.
"I wanted you to see something, Myrtle. This," and she indicated the squat woman behind her, "is someone you used to know."
"Myrtle?" demanded the witch in a peevish voice. "No. Please. Don't tell me it's her – I thought the Ministry banished her."
Myrtle peered at the visitor, drifting down. "Olive? Olive Hornby? Is it really?" She circled around the woman, looking at her.
"Myrtle Buckram! You certainly haven't changed a bit," Olive told her, the contempt in her voice apparent. "Still blubbering in your toilet, are you?"
"You have," Hermione injected quickly, before Myrtle could begin crying. "She's what, Myrtle, seventy years old, now? Hasn't aged all that well, has she?"
Olive gaped at Hermione. "That's a very personal comment, and I don't appreciate it," she said with a huff. "I demand you apologize at once!"
"And I'm sure Myrtle didn't appreciate you making comments about her glasses," Hermione retorted. "Did you ever apologize to her?"
"That was fifty years ago!" she protested. "I was a child!"
"No excuse," Hermione replied. "You may not have killed Myrtle, but you were responsible for making her miserable back then, and she's been miserable ever since."
"It's not my fault," she objected, looking at Myrtle with distaste. "If she hadn't been such a nasty little annoyance, always lurking around me and my friends..."
"She got fat," Myrtle commented suddenly, turning to Hermione in astonishment. Neither one paid any attention to Olive's latest gasp of outrage.
"Yes, she did," Hermione agreed.
"She's not very pretty any more, either," observed Myrtle.
"Really, Myrtle, I don't know how she ever managed to intimidate you," Hermione commented with a sniff. "It's not as though she's all that impressive a person."
Olive's pudgy cheeks began to redden, her superior sneer losing its power as her lower lip began to quiver. She appeared frozen in place, her outrage no match for the brutal, impartial truth expressed by individuals she could not intimidate.
"And she's got all those lines on her face," Myrtle continued, circling around the woman in question once more before settling beside Hermione. "She looks like a fat, nasty little lap dog."
A moaning cry escaped Olive, and she began to cry. Pressing one hand to her mouth, she fled the hall, her sniffles escalating into sobs as the door slammed shut behind her.
Hermione and Myrtle looked at each other.
"That wasn't very nice of us," Myrtle said, trying vainly to hide a sly smile behind her hand.
"No, not really," Hermione replied, a matching smile growing on her own lips. The two ghosts looked at each other, then burst into laughter. They swooped off down the hall, arm in arm, and their laughter ringing off the stone walls.
In their wake, Severus Snape strolled thoughtfully down the hall, his hands clasped behind his back and just a hint of a smirk tugging the corner of his mouth.