Chapter III: The Clarity Of Distance

Surprisingly enough, contrary to what Hermione had dreaded, breaking up with Ron had only strengthened her friendship with him, rather than weaken it. Not that she minded, per se. Compared to the horror stories she had head about couples breaking up and never wanting to see each other again, keeping Ron as her friend was the much better alternative. They still argued, often, but nowadays they were far more amicable, as opposed to the tension that had permeated their interactions for so long. Now, Ron was far more relaxed about speaking his mind, no longer worried about his image or what she would think of him. He no longer felt the need to impress her, and as such, the real Ronald Weasley began to shine through. Their rapport slowly morphed from clipped tones and jealous remarks to silly jibes and outlandish mockery, akin to how siblings would make fun of each other.

Hermione could definitively say that she preferred this Ron more than the one that had obsessed over her for so long. The stark contrast between the two sides of her friend made her wonder why she had put up with the former for so long. She could honestly say, from a more detached point of view, that he was far more attractive now than he ever was back when they were sort-of dating. It almost made her wonder if there could be something between them.

And then Hermione would remember very clearly why he was like this, the boundaries the two had put in place that facilitated this change, and she reckoned that it was for the best that they stayed that way.

Of course, it wasn't long before Ron had moved on to someone else. At first, he had tried fixing his relationship with Lavender, to which he received an adamant refusal, one which manifested in a suspicious hand-shaped mark on his cheek. She and Harry very much enjoyed the image of a humiliated Ron Weasley, much to the chagrin of their friend. Soon, though, the youngest male Weasley had declared, not three weeks after he and Hermione had broken up, that he was seeing someone new.

Frustratingly, however, he was mature enough about it that he didn't say who it was.

"Are you sure it's not Pansy Parkinson?" Harry offered one evening, as he leafed through his Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook for the hundredth time. Ron merely rolled his eyes.

"Why on Earth would it be her?" he cringed.

"I'm just saying, mate, the longer you keep it a secret, the crazier the theories are going to get. So far we've had people saying it's Susan Bones-"

"I've barely even spoken to her once!"

"Daphne Greengrass-"

"A Slytherin?"

Harry merely shrugged.

"Even Romlida Vane's on the list."

"Romlida Vane? Come off it!"

"Why not? After all, you did swear your undying love to her, remember?" Harry smirked devilishly.

"Yeah, when I was drugged to eyeballs on love potions," Ron pointed out.

"Which only happened because you have zero self-control when it comes to chocolate," Hermione added from her place leaning on the sofa, her head resting on Harry's legs as she read yet another weighty volume on psychotherapy.

"The way I see it, if I hadn't eaten those chocolates, it would have been Harry who'd have embarrassed himself." Ron puffed out his chest. "If anything, I made the ultimate sacrifice to protect Harry's honour."

"By eating my chocolate that you didn't even know had loved potions in them," Harry countered.

"Yes, and I'll be accepting a 'thank-you' any day now."

Harry scoffed.

"Yeah, right."

Ron shook his head, sighed irritably.

"Honestly, I keep one secret, and everyone thinks they deserve to know what it is," Ron grumbled. "Is this what it's like to be famous?"

"Mmhm," Harry hummed, "Except usually, people publish their outlandish theories as articles."

"Wow," Ron sounded, "Being famous sucks."

Harry gave Ron a long, tired stare.

"Yes, I bet it does."

No matter how many times they asked, Ron refused to give up the name of his mystery lover. All he ever said was that they knew her, and she was, as he liked to describe wistfully, unlike anyone he had ever met before. When Harry had offered that the reason for that was because she was fictional, the look on Ron's face had him and Hermione in stitches for the rest of the evening.

It became a bit of a running joke between Harry and Hermione to guess the most ridiculous answer to who Ron's girlfriend actually was. Some of their highlights were Rita Skeeter, Winky, Trelawney and Professor McGonagall. After all, Ron had often been at odds with his transfiguration teacher, and, as Hermione often reminded him, he always said that couples regularly argued. Ron's only response was the lifting of one finger.

Besides making jokes at Ron's expense, her relationship with Harry had blossomed in other ways. Ever since she and Ron had broken up, it allowed her far more time to be with her best friend, offering him support or helping him with his schoolwork. It came to a point when Harry spent more time with her than anyone else he knew since they shared the majority of classes together and the happened to live in the same tower the rest of the time. Not that she was complaining. It meant that, whenever he did need her help, she was always nearby to assist him.

It also meant that she actively missed him when he wasn't around. She had always felt Harry's absence before, such as on holidays, or when he disappeared off to Dumbledore's private lessons, but now whenever he disappeared from her life, even for a few hours, the feeling that she had misplaced something was all the more powerful. She reasoned that it was because, at any moment, Harry could come down with another panic attack, and her not being there to help him made him vulnerable. However, the more she spent time with him, the more she listened to what he had to say, about how he felt, the more she realised that it wasn't entirely true. Hermione always worried about him - it was in her nature - but it was just anxiety that drove her to miss him. It was longing.

She missed his smile, his laugh, his way of teasing her that made her feel like precious, the way he trusted her, and she, in turn, trusted him. He made her feel so secure, not only in her safety but in herself. He made her feel like Hermione Granger meant something.

Of course, that didn't mean they never disagreed, or even argued. Of course they did, they weren't perfect by any stretch. The textbook, for one thing. For some reason, whenever Hermione thought of the damned book, she felt a deep-seated anger flare from within her. It wasn't just that it basically allowed Harry the easy path to a perfect score, it was also what else that book contained.

The Sectumsempra curse, for one. From what Harry had described of the spell, Hermione assumed that it had been copied down from one of the Dark Arts tomes in the forbidden section of the library. However, when she had gone to check, filtering through each and every book on the subject, she couldn't find the spell anywhere. Even when Hermione had asked Madam Pince, or Professor Flitwick, or even Professor McGonagal, they all told her the same thing: the spell Hermione had asked for simply did not exist. Except, she reminded herself, inside that textbook.

The only logical assumption she could make, a theory she had quickly told Harry himself, was that the Half-Blood Prince, whoever they were, had created the spell themselves. The understanding - nay, mastery - of the dark arts required to do such a thing revolted her, to the point where she was determined to find out who the Prince was, just to see whether they were as ghastly as she imagined.

It was during that following trip to the library, scouring through the records for any clue as to the Prince's real name, she found something. Something big. Something which she quickly brought to Harry's attention the following, early Saturday morning.

"I have a lead," she announced, to an audience of one. Harry stared gormlessly at her, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Pardon?"

Hermione scoffed, landing beside him on the common room sofa.

"On the identity of the Half-Blood Prince."

Immediately she saw his expression switch from weary disinterest to active irritation.

"This again? Hermione, please can you let it rest?"

"No, not a chance!" she protested. "Surely you must be at least curious."

Harry shook his head.

"Not at all. I only ever liked that book for the potions tips, anyway."

Hermione scoffed.

"Potions cheats, more like."

He rounded on her, showing her a pleading frown.

"Look, if it helps me get the O, then that's all that matters."

"It's more valuable to know how you got the O though," she argued, "otherwise, you're not learning anything."

"It's not like I was inventing anything that I couldn't already do," Harry pointed out. "Is crushing rather than cutting so revolutionary?"

"Then why aren't your potions grades as high as they used to be?"

To her immense satisfaction, he stumbled on his next few words, his lips tightening in some pale imitation of McGonagal.

"Because… because the Prince is just better at potions than I am, alright?"

"And they always will be if you continue to rely on THEIR work!"

"It's not like I'm going to be a potioneer when I leave Hogwarts am I, Hermione?"

"No, but Aurors need to know how to make all sorts of potions - healing, pepper-up, light-foot, ember of heart, lungbarrow—"

"I can just buy if I need them—"

"And what if you're by yourself with nowhere to buy them from?"

"Then…" He glanced around the room, anywhere but her penetrating stare. Eventually, realising he had painted himself into a corner, he admitted defeat. "Look, okay, okay! You've got me. I shouldn't rely solely on the Prince, but you can't say me getting a better grade is a bad thing."

"I'd rather you earned it," Hermione replied, which only served to further crush his mood. Realising how they had gotten off-topic, Hermione cupped his cheek. "Look, Harry, I'm not saying this to annoy you. I never want to annoy you or make you hate me."

"Hey…" he suddenly pulled himself together, rubbing her arm in return. "Hey, I'm sorry. I could never hate you, Hermione. You're my best friend, remember." He sent her a quick smile. "It's just that I don't need you reminding me of my shortcomings whenever I sit down. It makes me feel… inadequate. Especially when it's coming from you."

"Because I'm bossy, I know," she dismissed, to which Harry suddenly looked very indignant.

"No, because you're amazingly clever, 'Mione," he said with such conviction that she was momentarily stunned. "It just reminds me of how little I actually know. Especially considering what everyone's expecting me to do…"

"Harry, admitting to not knowing something is a good thing. Something I don't do nearly as much as I should."

"That's because there's so little that you don't know…" he pointed out. Hermione blushed despite herself.

"Aww, Harry, I…" Her eyes widened. "Wait a minute, I see what you're doing."

Harry suddenly looked flustered.

"Doing? Wh-What am I doing?"

She grinned.

"You're trying to distract me, showering me with compliments, so I forget about the Prince."

For a moment, there was a look on his face that told her that was anything but the truth, but it just as quickly evaporated.

"…No, I'm not," he replied as innocently as he could.

"Yes, you are."

"Nope."

"Harry."

He let out an exaggerated sigh.

"Well, it was worth a shot. Go on. Tell me what you've found."

Hermione couldn't help but smile, scooting across the seat so that they were side by side.

She pulled an ancient piece of newsprint out of her pocket and slammed it down on the table in front of Harry. 'Look at that! Look at the picture!'

Harry picked up the crumbling piece of paper and stared at the moving photograph, yellowed with age; Ron leaned over for a look, too. The picture showed a skinny girl of around fifteen. She was not pretty; she looked simultaneously cross and sullen, with heavy brows and a long, pallid face. Under-neath the photograph was the caption: Eileen Prince, Captain of the Hogwarts Gobstones Team.

"So?" said Harry, scanning the short news item to which the picture belonged.

"Her name was Eileen Prince. Prince, Harry."

They looked at each other, and Harry realised what Hermione was trying to say.

"Seriously? You think she's the one?"

"Well, why not? Harry, there aren't any real princes in the wizarding world! It's either a nickname, a made-up title somebody's given themselves, or it could be their actual name, couldn't it? No, listen! If, say, her father was a wizard whose surname was "Prince", and her mother was a Muggle, then that would make her a 'half-blood Prince'!"

"Even I think that's a bit far fetched, Hermione…"

"But it would! Maybe she was proud of being half a Prince!"

"Listen, Hermione, I can tell it's not a girl. I can just tell."

"You just don't want to believe that a woman could be clever enough to be the Half-blood Prince."

"Hermione…" He seemed genuinely put-out. "Of course, I don't think that. In fact, I know a certain young woman who happens to be the smartest person I know."

Hermione smirked, deciding to act coy.

"Do I know her?" she asked, glancing towards the far corner of the room, her nose upturned.

"You just might…" he grinned back. "Still, you might be reading too far into it. This is a student's book, after all. I doubt they put too much thought into their own nickname."

"Blood status isn't something Wizards announce lightly, Harry," she reminded him. "It may sound a bit over the top to us - we grew up with Muggles after all - but here it's something very serious, especially back when the Prince owned the book. That was just before Voldemort's rise."

"You could be right…" Harry digested all that she had said, his eyes squinting in deep thought. "Still, I'm not convinced it's a 'she'. Call it intuition."

"Call it male chauvinism."

"Male what now?"

She lightly hit his arm.

"Prat."

"Hey, we might both be right," he proposed, peaking her attention. "Perhaps there's another Prince out there, a relative, maybe. Did Eileen ever have children?"

She pondered it for a while, wondering if there was a registry for past students and their kin, or perhaps an article about the Prince family she could consult. Either way, it meant yet another long day in the library. For Harry, though, it was worth it.

"I'll have to check." The ticking of an old grandfather clock in the corner drew her attention. "Oh, it's nearly ten o'clock."

Nearly time for Harry's detention with Snape, a whole day of Harry's most hated teacher insulting him as much as he wanted. It always left him in a sour mood, one the Hermione often had to undo herself. She glanced back to Harry, who suddenly looked downcast.

"Yes, it is…" He stared dispassionately at the clock face, deliberating over whether it was worth actually turning up. Of course, Harry knew it was for the best that he did. He deserved it, after all, even if what had done to Malfoy was an accident.

That didn't mean his entire day had to be wasted, however.

"Hermione," he said softly, "I would love to study some potions this evening if you want."

Hermione smiled, taking his hand in her's.

"I'd love to, Harry." She nudged him with his shoulder. "We'll get you back to the top of the class in no time."

"I thought you coveted that spot."

"I'd be more than happy to give it away to whoever earns it." Before Harry could protest, Hermione pulled him into a tight hug. "Don't let Snape get to you, okay?"

The feeling of his arms wrapping around her, in turn, sent a shiver down her spine.

"Okay." Reluctantly, he untangled himself from her embrace, standing up and walking towards the portrait hole. He gave her one last passing look over his shoulder, which she met with her own wistful gaze. "See you soon."


Once again, detention was set in the dingy excuse for Snape's old office, stuffed with towering stacks of old boxes, all filled to bursting with disciplinary cards needing to be copied and filed. It was the epitome of tedium, an activity that chewed away the hours with all the enthusiasm of a slug. And, to provide further insult, it was all to be done in silence. Or, at least, his silence, because Professor Snape certainly didn't abide by that rule, taking time out of his day to spite him with insult after insult, and Harry could do nothing but take it.

Luckily the breathing exercises that Hermione had taught him for his panic attacks had another use. They also worked exceptionally well when it came to countering anger, a fact that Harry had fully taken advantage of. As much as Harry wanted to respond to Snape's words with some of his own, ultimately he knew it would be far more aggravating to remain silent, o not take the bait. He had to admit, watching Snape get more and more desperately to provoke any kind of reaction out of him, only to bristle when he failed, was immensely satisfying.

Of course, once Snape had decided to move one from insulting him to insulting his friends, then Harry had a bit more difficulty keeping his temper in check. Especially when Hermione was the victim of the man's vile remarks.

"It's a shame that these detentions are keeping you from spending more time with Miss Granger," he drawled, after yet another one of his long-winded speeches. At this point, Harry's primary response was to zone out, ignore what Snape was saying, get on with the task at hand. Hearing his best friend's name, however, had snared Harry's attention, something that Snape had noticed and was more than willing to exploit. "Perhaps her academic discipline would straighten you out. Then again, if I had a friend as insufferable as her, I would have gladly taken detention, rather than be forced to listen to her jabbering away."

Harry took in a deep, quiet breath, just as Hermione had shown him, centring his focus on the card on the desk. He continued copying the faded words carefully, letter for letter. He wanted to smash Snape's head against the table, but expressing even a fraction of that anger would only benefit him, so, harry remained silent. Scape stiffened, his scowl deepening to a full frown. Harry could tell, even from across the room, that he was starting to try Snape's patience. He scoffed inwardly. Serves him right, Harry thought.

Deciding that he finally had enough of subtlety, the slimy professor rounded on Harry, putting them practically face-to-face.

"Then again, I'm sure she wouldn't have been stupid enough to use a curse on a fellow student without knowing it's full effects." If Snape meant for his words to have any effect, they failed. Harry kept his head down, refusing to dignify the man's barbs with any kind of response. "You're lucky that I happened upon you and Master Malfoy in time; otherwise you would be in dire trouble. If it weren't for me, perhaps you'd have followed your godfather to Azkaban."

Harry bristled, his grip on his quill tightening. He was about to think of some baiting response that might have said if he were allowed or were stupid enough when a thought struck him.

He realised as he ran back through his memory, back to the scene in the toilets, seeing Malfoy on the floor, blood flowing from a vicious cut that appeared on his chest. He remembered how Snape had appeared, just in time, chanting a spell that Harry couldn't recognise that quickly closed Malfoy's wounds.

It was remarkable to Harry just how lucky Malfoy was that Snape knew the correct counter curse to heal his life-threatening injuries. How fortunate that Snape just so happened to know the countercurse to a spell that no one else knew. A spell that, according to even Hermione's thorough research, didn't exist anywhere else except inside Harry's potions textbook. A spell that Snape had to have recognised almost immediately to save Malfoy's life.

Maybe it wasn't luck, Harry pondered. Perhaps, as the evidence concurred, Snape really did know exactly what Harry had hit Malfoy with. But if Snape knew about Sectumsempra, then…

Harry ran the idea through his head again and again and again, trying to find fault in it. No, he thought. Snape was not the Half-Blood Prince, how could he be? It wasn't possible. Surely. Right? But no matter how much Harry tried to deny it, he couldn't stop the pieces in his brain from clicking together. The mastery of potions; the propensity for the dark arts; Snape's knowledge of the countercurse; his insistence to search Harry's textbooks; how he knew immediately that Harry had used Ron's instead. The timing would fit, too. Snape must have attended Hogwarts around the same time when the book was new, around thirty years ago, maybe.

Harry realised as he brought himself back into the now, that his quill had stopped writing altogether, arrested on a singular point of the parchment. His eye trailed again to the card on the desk, noticing that one particular entry was covered up. Harry picked the card in his hand, releasing it from under the parchment, revealing the rest of the entry. His blood ran cold. Dated 12th March 1977, it read:

Severus Snape. Unknown laceration curse on Stephanie Brown. Victim's wounds healed by the perpetrator the scene. Two months daily evening detention.

The rest of his detention passed like a blur. His brain could barely function, it felt like every cog in his head had fallen out of place, only allowing him the capacity to read and copy. Before he knew it, the detention had ended, and he was walking free. His feet found the Gryffindor Common Room before his eyes did, his brain only catching up once he found his place on the sofa in front of the fireplace.

He knew that Hermione would be back from the library eventually, ready to meet him with open arms, to hear about his day. Today, however, she carried with her something far more important. Today, she had presumably spent her time researching the Prince, about who they could be. If her theory about Eileen Prince was correct, or least lead to another person - anyone but Snape - then at least he could rest easier. At least he could rest assured he hadn't put his undying faith in Snape - nearly killed a person because of Snape. Suddenly, everything Harry had done over the past year came into startling clarity. How he had defended the Prince, made so many excuses for them, tried desperately to hand onto that precious book, despite the horrible, horrible things it contained. Hermione's cautionary words, her constant and vocal denouncement of that book felt all the more relevant.

Harry realised, no more than ever, Hermione deserved an apology.

A few minutes later, the portrait hole opened, and Hermione stepped inside. Spotting him, she hesitantly made her way over to the spot by his side. Her face spoke of either shock or confusion, or maybe both. Either way, it spoke only bad omens.

"Harry, you're not going to believe this," she said gravely, crushing what little hope for some good news Harry still had. "I was looking through old copies of the Daily Prophet… tucked away in a back issue from the 60s, there was an article about Eileen. Apparently, she married a man called Tobias…"

She paused for a moment, seemingly unable to carry on. Harry held his breath.

"T-Tobias Snape." Harry paled. Her hand gripped his tightly. "Her son was called Severus. Harry… you don't think…?"

But Harry knew the answer. He knew, deep down, before she had even arrived.

"It's him," he replied resolutely. "I know it is."

He went to explain what he had heard in his detention, how it related to what had to Malfoy, every conclusion Harry had drawn up, beat by beat. Slowly, but inevitably, Hermione's frightfully reluctance turned into dawning horror, as she too realised the truth.

Snape had been the Half-Blood Prince all along.

Soon, though, the horror in Harry's chest subsided, smothered a deep, burning hatred. Snape, the man who had called his father and his godfather no-good troublemakers, the worst kind of humans, had been creating dark curses in his free time. Back when Harry's father was occupied with harmless jokes, Snape's weapons of choice were the curses of cowards, the types that aimed to hurt, to maim, to kill.

And Harry had let himself be caught up in it all, all because it got him a better grade in potions.

As far as Harry was concerned, he never wanted to see that textbook again. Now, with a new-found purpose, he stood from his seat, marching towards the entranceway.

"Harry?" Hermione asked from behind him. "What are you doing? Where are you going?"

Harry turned, allowing Hermione a proper look at his incensed look, a picture of fury she dreaded to see on her best friend's face.

His response was clipped and blunt.

"To destroy that stupid book."