Chapter 2
As his final class of the day entered the Potions classroom, the seventh-years accompanied by the few returning 'eighth-years', Severus had his answer.
Of course she was fucking here.
Since when did Granger ever miss a chance for further instruction? She'd probably sent back the accepting owl to Minerva before the ink was dry on her reply. The one consolation was that Potter and Weasley weren't with her, and she seemed to be the only older student wearing a Gryffindor tie.
A few of his returning Slytherins were there, including Malfoy, who Severus alternated between feeling sorry for, and wanting to punch in the face. Word had it that Draco had free run of Malfoy Manor whilst his parents were in Azkaban, so he'd been expecting a gloating little shit to enter the classroom.
But surprisingly, Draco had entered without comment, bobbing his head with a nod of greeting and seating himself a respectable distance away from the front. He'd then beckoned Miss Bulstrode to sit next to him. Severus wouldn't spoil this unprecedented behaviour by telling him that the troll-like Bulstrode had less chance of remaining in this class longer than a week, than Hufflepuff had of winning the house cup.
It was going to be difficult for all Slytherins, not just these older ones, to ingratiate themselves back into school life, to shed dark reputations, to right wrongs that had been rent upon others. It was the main reason he had also agreed to resume the role as Head of House for Slytherin, since they would need at least one member of staff on their side.
He found himself face-to-face with Miss Granger for the first time since she believed she'd watched him die. He wondered briefly how might feel about that, before deciding that he did not give one single shit for her opinion. She had mumbled a good afternoon as she'd entered the Potions classroom, which he'd not returned with anything but a dark glare. He had nothing to say her, no conversation to make with any of them, for he was here to teach, not to converse, nor make friends.
Severus began the lesson at a blistering pace, daring the students to keep up with him and determined to erase all memory of Slughorn's insubstantial teaching. Horace was a kind educator, too kind, since he was liable to indulge those students of lesser ability who had no business being anywhere near a NEWT Potions class.
He spelled the instructions on to the blackboard with a flick of his wand, whilst explaining the name, uses and warnings of the potion they were to brew, which seemed like a simple tincture, but was far more complicated than they would expect, since they were now at seventh-year level and he was not playing games. The Essence of Aurelian was fiendishly difficult to brew, and his choice for this potion on their first lesson was deliberate. He wanted to see which of them had what it took to gain an Outstanding NEWT in the subject. The rest? He was not interested.
"Excuse me, Sir?"
It was her fucking hand in the air before he'd even instructed them to collect their ingredients from the storeroom.
"Yes, Miss Granger?" he replied, tersely. "What a novel experience to see your keen hand waving in the air."
Severus thought he noted a look of resentment cross her face at his harsh words, but it was gone in a flash, to be replaced with dull-eyed stoicism.
"What is the brewing time on this potion, Professor Snape? You have stated that there are five stages, amounting to seventy-two minutes, but I don't believe that takes into account the two rest phases where the brew needs to be left to sit, unstirred, before commencing the next stage. That would add an additional eleven minutes, by my calculations."
He watched Malfoy roll his eyes in disgust, and saw the Ravenclaws begin to tot up the total number of brewing minutes on the board. Severus quickly did the calculation himself. Fuck. The insufferable chit was right. He narrowed his eyes at her, before beginning to speak, dangerously quietly.
"I believe, Miss Granger, that we are in a Potions class, not an Arithmancy lesson. Kindly divert your efforts from attempting to wrongfoot me and prove yourself once and for all to be an insufferable know-it-all, and instead focus on the essence you have been instructed to brew. Everyone make your way to the storeroom."
"But Sir!"
She had shot up out of her seat, clearly annoyed by his answer.
"Surely an essential element of potion-making is knowing the correct brewing times?" she insisted, not backing down.
"And now every student is aware of the correct brewing time for Essence of Aurelian, for you have enlightened them, Miss Granger. Congratulations on proving yourself to have a better grasp of basic addition than I. Perhaps you would like to teach the class?"
"No, thank you. Sir."
"Indeed. Ten points from Gryffindor for not knowing when to cease your constant lecturing. No wonder Potter and Weasley have not returned to school, both are most likely sick of hearing your voice."
Severus immediately regretted the last statement as he saw the girl cast her eyes downwards at his brutal insult. Fuck, she wasn't going to cry, was she? The last thing he needed on the first day of term was a sobbing lion in his classroom.
But no. She gave him a brief nod of acknowledgement, and then followed the rest of the students to the storeroom, from where he could hear much scuffling around, followed by the unmistakeable smash of a potion bottle on the hard flagstone floor.
For fuck's sake.
For the next hour, he stalked between the brewing benches like a malevolent bat, stopping to critique each student's work, not to offend, but to instruct. Any offence caused was simply a bonus.
Obviously, Granger's was near-perfect, her work station tidy and her notes in good order, and it was a refreshing change to award her ten points for an excellent effort, rather than always having to be seen to favour Slytherin. He was free to grade as he wished, now. There you go, girl, you've broken even on points, he thought, as the class were packing their bags to leave the room at the end of the lesson, vials stoppered and in the rack on his desk.
No one lingered after the bell had sounded, no questions for the teacher to consolidate their knowledge of today's potion, all keen to get their first day over with. The classroom was soon as empty as it had been at eight o'clock that morning. His timetabled lessons were over for the day.
This was it, then.
His new life, free of Voldemort, free of Dumbledore.
Rise, teach, sleep. Repeat ad infinitum.
-xxx-
Hermione was curled up next to the small fire, wearing her pyjamas and Ron's Quidditch jumper, enjoying the evening with a mug of hot chocolate and new friends. She and Neville were in Hannah and Susan's room, along with Ernie MacMillan, all highly enthused by the new discovery that they could order food and drinks from the kitchens through their private Floo.
"I had no idea that these fireplaces were connected to the school Floo network!" exclaimed Susan, who had issued the invitation to the others, clearly keen to get off on the right foot.
Susan Bones was sharing a room with fellow Hufflepuff, Hannah Abbott, their own choice, as their room was larger than the singles, with a much bigger bathroom. They'd had the idea of hosting a social event when seeing some of the eighth-year Ravenclaws crowd into one of the rooms, and decided that since Gryffindor and Hufflepuff had the smallest cohort, they should stick together. No mention had been made of the Slytherins.
Not feeling particularly sociable and initially declining the invitation, Hermione had been encouraged to go by Neville, and she suspected he fancied Hannah, whom he was sitting particularly close to, laughing too loudly at all her jokes, and seemingly very aware of where he was spreading his long legs in the small room. It was bigger than her own room, that was for sure, but with five students, all now adult-sized, it was a squeeze.
Susan ordered a plate of lemon muffins, curious as to if they would actually arrive. The hot chocolate had been welcome, but they wondered if they were pushing it with the muffins. However, they dutifully arrived a few minutes later, coming spinning through the Floo in a sealed box. They were all in fits of giggles at the new discovery, and Hermione relaxed, thinking how very nice it was just to laugh with friends, no danger or fear hanging over your head like a black dementor of doom that you couldn't ignore, knowing it was always there.
Nice. And not at all boring. She'd had enough adventure to last her a lifetime.
Hadn't she?
They remained undisturbed, chatting about everything and nothing, until Professor Sinistra, who was on patrol that night, knocked on the door and reminded them that they still had a curfew, albeit a generous one, and that when she returned to the guest corridor, she hoped they would all be in their own rooms and silent.
Hermione, Neville and Ernie left the shared room for their own personal chambers, bidding each other goodnight in the hallway, Ernie turning right from the girls' room, with Hermione and Neville turning left. As she unlocked her door, Neville placed his hand on her shoulder.
"Are you alright, Hermione?"
"Of course I am. Why do you ask?"
"I don't really know. You seem a bit sad."
"Everything's different, I suppose, Neville. It will take some time to get used to. Last year I was on the run with Harry and Ron in a tent, eating bloody mushrooms to survive, and now I'm back at school, no Death Eaters on my tail."
"It's different for me, too. I was here last year, and it was the worst year of my life, surviving under Snape and the Carrows, but it made me stronger, you know? Made me realise what we fought for. What we have now, living like this, its what I always wanted."
"And a certain blonde Hufflepuff has nothing to do with that?"
He smiled, and blushed a little. Merlin, she loved Neville. He was the sweetest, kindest young man, and she only hoped that Hannah Abbott returned his affections. He was so deserving of love.
"That obvious?" he asked.
"That obvious," she confirmed. "But only to me, I think. Don't worry. Just keep being you."
"Really?"
"I promise. You're a great catch, Neville. Handsome, brave and strong, and don't forget the bit about being a hero."
She smiled merrily at him, meaning every word.
"Do you think Hannah likes me?"
"We're not thirteen, Neville. You could just ask her."
"I will. Maybe. At some point."
"I'm sure you will."
"What about you? You and Ron?"
She pulled a face.
"We were … together for a while over the summer. You know that, you saw us at enough Ministry functions, as partners, dressed in our best. But, I don't know, we've not split up, but then we never officially agreed to get together, really."
"But you're still, um …?"
Hermione laughed again.
"Yes, last time we were together, before I moved back to my parents' house from the Burrow, I snogged him, is that what you wanted to know?"
"But that's over now?"
"Who knows what will happen? He's working with George at the shop now, and I'm here. We're unlikely to see each other until Christmas, and a lot can happen in a few months. We made each other no promises, we didn't discuss it all, really."
"So, it'll be okay when you get together with Ernie then?" teased Neville.
"Stop! Ernie Macmillan is not my type. Besides, I wouldn't be surprised if he makes a play for Susan, especially since you appeared to stake your claim on Hannah, tonight."
"Draco Malfoy, then?"
"Oh, please."
"You mentioned your parents, Hermione. Are they home?"
"They're not," she admitted. "Maybe one day I'll travel to Australia and find them, but even if I did, I have no idea how to reverse the Obliviate I placed them under. It was rather strong, as well as the false memories I replaced theirs with. What about yours?"
"Not good," he told her. "The Healers think that Mum is starting to fade. I've given permission to go and visit them this weekend. Would you, er … would you come with me? I feel like I can ask you, because, you know, you saw them there. That time."
"Of course I will," she agreed, grabbing his hand without a moment's hesitation. "Whatever you need."
Professor Sinistra chose that moment to stalk back down the guest corridor.
"Miss Granger! Mr Longbottom! I believe that I quite clearly advised you all to go to bed. You two only appear to have got as far as your doors. Kindly open them and enter. No more fooling around, please!"
Seeing that the Astronomy professor was not leaving until they had moved, they muttered a hasty goodnight to one another, and an apology to Professor Sinistra, before Hermione retreated to her chamber and threw off Ron's jumper, tossing it messily on to the armchair. The motion made her hair static, and the wild head that looked back at her from the bathroom mirror as she cleaned her teeth, amused her. She looked about eleven years old, wild-haired and unkempt.
Vaulting into her bed for her second night back at the castle, she thought again about how nice it was to have her own room, free of Lavender's twittering and Parvati's snoring.
There was that word again.
Nice.
She could, Hermione thought to herself, as she wriggled around in bed, trying to get comfortable for the night, apply the same description to Ron Weasley's kissing.
There had been quite a lot of it, over the summer, and her conversation with Neville had brought the memories to the forefront of her mind.
After their frenzied, for there wasn't another apt enough word for it, snog in the Chamber of Secrets when they'd been doused by a stinking tidal wave that had cut their passion short, they had seemed to enter an understanding, of sorts.
Entering Ministry events on Ronald's arm, as Harry did with Ginny, it had been automatically assumed that they were now together. Even by themselves, it appeared. Admittedly, the stolen kisses around the Burrow and in quiet corners of various parties, gave credence to this suggestion. And there was nothing bad about the kissing. It had been …
Don't say it, Hermione.
Nice.
Apparently, her formidable brain was unable to turn up a more suitable epithet than the banal, perhaps for very good reason.
This enforced break from one another would do them both good. Ron was going to be working, she was going to be studying – time and space to make suitable life decisions that were befitting of a witch who was turning nineteen in a matter of weeks.
Focusing on slowing her breathing for sleep, Hermione imagined walking into the formidable Department of Mysteries for the first day of her training as an Unspeakable; imagining she would be wearing smart, professional robes, new boots and carrying a grown-up leather satchel, rather than her damn school book bag, Hermione found this a pleasant enough dream to take her right through the night.