After much contemplation, Severus had finally determined Granger intrigued him—that there was something that he could not put his finger on that had taken over his sense and compelled him to draw her. As much as he did not want to think of it in this way, Hermione had shown up and disrupted his focus and concentration so much because some part of his mind found a muse in her.

It was purely on an aesthetic, impartial, artistic level, he'd told himself. And that is what he had to believe, for his sanity's sake.

Granger was often at St Walter's in the afternoon before he arrived. While he did not make it a point to interact with her, he would acknowledge her presence and share the simplest of pleasantries. Severus had never been one for small talk, and being artistically interested in the woman did not change that.

She seemed to know this, never extending her stay past what was tolerable, and not being so tiresome as to ask about the weather. Often, she simply asked how his day was going, answered simply that her own day had been fine, and then they would part.

When the interaction was over, Severus would still his mind and try to draw some of her expression from memory. It was not as good as being able to focus on her as a subject, but it would do. Later, if he would get a chance to glimpse her elsewhere in St Walter's, he would sketch her, but he was always cautious to not be noticed.

Due to his careful examination of her features and expressions, Severus was starting to consider that she was perhaps more attractive than anyone had ever given her credit for. Hermione Granger had developed into a beautiful young woman. Purely from an artistic lens, of course.

One day, however, the moment he stepped into St Walter's, his habitual keen observation of her tipped him off that something was wrong.

Her hair was tightly drawn back and up into a bun, giving her a severe appearance. She had always seemed to dress smartly, except for the weekends, but today she was in overdressed-heels, black skirt, black suit jacket, and the familiar leather satchel was missing.

All those things alone would not have been something that would have sent a flag of warning up if they did not accompany the expression on her face. Her lips were thin and her eyes seemed puffy as if she were upset and had been crying at some point. It was an expression he'd never seen on her face as she gazed at her favourite piece of art.

Against all reason and sanity, Severus crossed the room and stood next to her wordlessly.

Hermione looked up at him and nodded, acknowledging his presence but not saying a word.

Another red flag of caution rose in his grey matter.

He could not, however, figure out for the life of him what to say to her. Part of him wished to ask if she were alright, while another soundly told him it was none of his business. As drawn as he was to the woman standing next to him, it was not his place to assume that he had any right to know anything of her life. His mouth felt dry, and his palms once again began to sweat as his heart seemed to quicken.

Filling his lungs, he glanced up at the work and thought back to their first conversation about it. Severus had considered her words and had come to realize that she might have been right on the fact it was unlikely that Ophelia died as it was described. Using that as a point of conversation might be the most appropriate thing he could think to do.

He tilted his head up toward the relief. "Who do you think did it?"

She leaned forward a bit, and he watched her squint as she did. "Sir Millais."

"No, her murderer?" Severus asked, gesturing toward Ophelia.

Surprise crossed Granger's face as she glanced up at him, straightening up. "Oh! Gertrude. Undoubtedly."

"Why her?"

"So many reasons." Hermione sighed, putting up a finger. "If you look from a literary view, it ties in with the theme. The whole lot were a family of murderers. And Gertrude and Ophelia were foils to other. Consider the way that Gertrude treated Ophelia. She was used as a scapegoat by the woman. The queen thought that Hamlet's madness and the potential fall of Denmark lay at Ophelia's feet. She called into question her virtue and character, saying that if she were better, things would not be as they were. In Gertrude's mind, killing Ophelia restores order and Ophelia's virtue, thereby saving Denmark and absolving herself of the crimes she was party to herself. It is why she crowned Ophelia in flowers, for she was to be the future queen of Denmark, and claimed she sung as she drowned." Hermione was quiet for a moment, before a dark look crossed her face. "No woman, even in the most extremes of grief, will sing as she drowns. Death and grief is not beautiful."

Severus leaned back from her on his foot, arms crossed over his chest as he regarded the woman next to him. He was not surprised she was as well versed and able to back up her statement, but how passionate she was about it. Hermione spoke as if she knew this woman, this character, personally.

"You've considered this often it seems," Severus half inquired, half stated.

She nodded solemnly, looking from him back up to the bust. "I relate to her. Ophelia was a pawn in a war that caused her to suffer, almost into madness. She was always painted as so one-dimensional, even though she was intelligent, dutiful, loyal, dependable, and kind to a fault. Even with all that, she was a tool to everyone, used even by those that were supposed to love her." Another heavy pause, where he could almost feel the emotions crossing her face. "I feel very much the same about my own life."

Surely the brightest witch of her age did not imagine her life was that tragic. They had won; the Dark Lord had been defeated. This woman was a major part of that victory being possible, and yet she felt so passionately connected to this tragic character. It brought so many other questions to the fore, but he would not voice them. But still, he had to say something as the conversation lulled between them.

"Isn't Hamlet considered a tragedy?" Severus asked, clearing his throat.

"Yes, it is, isn't it?" Hermione closed her eyes, taking a deep breath.

Severus glanced at her, trying to decipher what had made her feel as she did. At this proximity, even with the receding redness around her eyes, he could not help but conclude that looked lovely.

Hermione let out a deep breath and glanced up at him. A smile sat on her lips now, the light of it reaching her eyes. "Thank you, Severus."

Confusion wavered over him. He had done nothing to warrant any gratitude, surely this benign conversation had not solved whatever it was that had upset her. "Whatever for?"

"For reminding me of something," she explained without actually explaining anything. "I better get going. I have a meeting with Harry and Ron." Hermione took a step toward him, reaching her hand out to clasp his arm in hers. "It was really good seeing you today, Severus."

His eyes glanced at her arm on his, and then at her, blinking in confusion. She'd taken him totally off guard, and he could barely mumble out a response when she let him go. "You too, Hermione."

The pressure of her contact was still there, he had barely felt it through his jacket sleeve. Severus watched her step out and stood in that place for a few moments, trying to fully understand what had just transpired. The lingering scent of petrichor, coffee, and daffodils was all that was left of her presence. His heartbeat slowed down, and he moved to one of the benches, glancing up at the relief with a new perspective.

Severus played over some of her words, and one thing stuck out to him from their initial conversation.

Do you ever wonder how the play would have gone if Ophelia hadn't died?

Was she actually asking that, or was she asking him if he wondered how the war would have turned out had she died?

What would have happened had Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of her age, died. It was not a future he wished to consider, knowing the role she played in the war. Severus was unsure how long he sat there, contemplating the interaction. His mind was full of too many questions and thoughts that he was not sure how he felt about them as they came to him.

Who did she feel used by?

Had the war driven her to the edge of madness?

How much of the character did she actually relate to?

Was someone going to murder her?

When he finally went home, he went upstairs and sat at his desk. Shutting out the noise, confusion, and frustration that had no source, he pictured her as she was that day in the museum. Tightly drawn up and almost defensive. Exhaling, he took his pencil to the page and recreated it from memory.

It took him most of the night and much erasing and restarting, but he completed it. Looking at his work, he experienced a strange connection to her. He understood the sadness in her eyes, the tightness in her jaw. He'd realized it then, and that must have been what drew him to speak to her in the first place.

Exhausted mentally, physically, and even emotionally, Severus went to bed, putting aside all the things that had arisen from their conversation to be dealt with later.