Third Year: The Prisoner of Azkaban

o0o

Hermione Granger had always believed that Professor Snape had been born in a black frockcoat and then wrapped in matching robes. So, when she realised who sat beneath the elm by the lake, she felt both amusement and the almost-horror of a world turned upside down.

At least he kept to the monochrome theme, black trousers and a white cambric shirt, open enough to actually show skin, which in the light of day still looked pale, but without that yellowish tinge. He had one sleeve rolled up and was staring at his forearm. He looked far younger and vulnerable, like a turtle without his shell. He must have felt the same because as soon as she came into view, he jumped up and began shrugging into his robes. A shame—because he had such broad shoulders and—

Oh, bugger. She was perving on a teacher? This teacher?

"Come to gloat, Miss Granger?"

"Sir?"

"Since you're smiling at me, you must have come to gloat. Or am I to be graced with another apology? Let's see, first year you set me on fire, second year you stole Boomslang skin from my stores—don't deny it—I saw you in the hospital wing looking like Bulstrode's cat. And now you've knocked me out cold. Whatever will you do for an encore?"

"You wouldn't listen."

"Did it ever occur to you, Miss Granger, that if you had deferred to me, I could have got all of you safely to Hogwarts—including Pettigrew? Things could have got sorted out, but you—"

"You'd have fed Sirius to a Dementor."

"But I didn't, did I? I brought Black back with us rather than to the gates to meet his proper fate." He raised an eyebrow and then just looked at her smugly the way he did whenever he'd stumped a student.

She frowned. "It's like with Neville's toad. You're a Potions master who can just look at a concoction to know if we've done it right. You knew it wasn't poison we'd be feeding to his pet. Why do you always want to seem so much worse than you are?"

He scowled. "If you think I make empty threats, Miss Granger … I do not have to explain my teaching methods to you—and the only reason you're not putting Gryffindor into negative numbers is because school is over for the year, we're technically off school grounds, and I am far too tired to deal with a know-it-all outside of the classroom. Good day to you."

She shook her head as he strode away. She'd never thought he had a teaching method beyond plain bullying. She wasn't sure she bought that now. But for whatever reason, she realised, she'd lost all her fear of Snape. Whether it was the glimpse of body or soul he'd let peek through, for the first time, she'd seen just a man. It might make him a little easier to cope with, even if she doubted she'd ever understand him.

Hermione Granger listened to Ron's uneven breathing as she held her vigil in the hospital wing. Even in his sleep, he held her hand too tightly, but she made no effort to loosen his sweaty grip. She didn't want to wake him. Let him sleep as long as he could before waking up to this nightmare. Though the bandages covered them, she could still see in her mind's eye the terrible gashes on his leg made by the werewolf's teeth.

Made by Lupin. Macnair would be executing Lupin tomorrow the same way he had put down Buckbeak—like an animal.

And Ron. Oh, God. Ron would be a werewolf now, too.

"This is your fault."

She turned and saw Harry beside her, eyes narrowed and voice dangerously, hissingly soft. She hadn't even heard his quiet approach. He seemed to get more and more like his mentor with each week. And there was no way she thought being more like Snape was a good thing.

Her hand squeezed in reaction, and Ron moaned in his sleep, releasing her hand and rolling to his side. She stood up to face Harry. If there was one thing she had learned about Slytherins—and that's what she considered Harry now, whatever his supposed House—it was to never show fear.

At least there was no danger she'd burst into tears. She was long cried out. It had been a terrible year. They had lost Neville in a Potions accident last month. No one blamed Snape, except her. He'd never kept after Neville like he should have. She'd tried to keep watch, but he'd separated them. She still felt sick about that, as if there was something she could have done. Some part of her wondered if Harry was right, if she was to blame for Ron, too.

"Not here, Harry, not now."

"Ron followed your lead. If—"

"Snape wouldn't listen. He—"

"Professor Snape to you. What was there to listen to? Sirius Black murdered my family, and there was Lupin all chummy with him with some ludicrous tale about Scabbers being Pettigrew. Just thank Merlin that you and Ron didn't really hurt Severus with that Expelliarmus, or I could never forgive you."

"We just knocked him out—that hex you used on Black—"

"What else was I supposed to do after you did that to Severus, leaving us alone with those murderers? You should be down on your knees thanking me for saving your life and begging my forgiveness!"

"What if Black really was innocent?" She continued on despite his scornful puff of air at that. "He's worse than dead, Harry. You left him helpless, and the Dementors sucked out his soul."

"I'm not sorry." It scared her that he didn't try to hide his smile. "But it's not just that. You knew what Lupin was, didn't you? And said nothing. You've a talent for trusting the wrong people."

He was right.

She used to trust Harry. Now, she feared him.

to be continued