Thanks for all the replies I have been getting; it helps while I try to figure out where this story is going to head. Any ideas would be welcome. This chapter is just setting up a bit more, to answer any questions about the version of the Potterverse this story is set in. Sorry for my chapters getting longer, I'll try not to make it a habit.
Chapter 3:
Packing was never a thing Hermione enjoyed. She was always moving in her mind, always moving from place to place with her parents, or from wherever her parents were at the end of the holidays back to boarding school, and in her later years back to Hogwarts. She started staying at Hogwarts during the holidays simply to avoid the packing she would have had to do, albeit it was simpler with magic to help. And then once the war had started, it seemed to her that they were always moving, either being pursued or the pursuer. Since starting university and getting her new job, she had had to constantly change apartments as the ones she lived in were sold or moved back into by the owners.
It wasn't like she needed money – since receiving an order of Merlin, First Class after the war she was in receipt of a small payment of thanks from the Ministry for her help in the bringing about the downfall of Tom Riddle. Not that she wanted to go down that path of thought right now.
This was supposed to be a happy time, she was returning to the only place she had ever called home. Whenever Hermione had referred to home, she had always referred to people, never a place. No-one from school had ever come to her place for sleep over's or to visit, Harry and Ron had only met her parents a couple of times. She liked it that way; it stopped the boys asking annoying questions of her, kept her life tidier and well organised, and above all stopped those heart to heart talks people around her were so fond of. She had found that people had nothing to talk about with you, if they knew nothing about you. It was what she preferred, to stay out of the limelight, in the background with her books and her research.
"Hermione the bushy-haired, know-it-all." She said as she folded more clothes from her drawers wandlessly and placed them precisely in a box, which was labelled Clothes in a neat, flowing script. She sighed again. She was trying to understand why she was looking with such finality at each thing she packed away. 'Because you'll never have to do this again'. Her mind supplied for her. And it was right (isn't it always?). She would never have to pack again once she was at Hogwarts – it was her home, and she was never going to have to move again. She closed off the morbid train of thought, and set about finishing packing, thinking about all the wonderful things she was going to be able to do once she got home.
Down in the dungeons, Severus was having similar thoughts. Hogwarts was his home, and it had been since he left Spinner's End at the end of his final holidays in final year. After his realisation that no student he had taught since Granger had been a credit to him, he was wondering why he was still teaching; now the Dark Lord had gone, he really had no reason to be here. He didn't need the money, with patents coming in from his potions and allowance from his order of Merlin, First Class. His research was simply meandering along, not really headed anywhere. He had lost his drive, lost his focus, and his anger over Granger taking the new teaching job had been the most emotion he'd felt and the most energy he'd expended in years. 'These thoughts about the chit are become far too common' he sneered at himself.
Leaning over the rim of a bubbling cauldron, he swore viciously as the potion he was working on yet again turned black and rock hard in the bottom, despite the high heat he had the pot set at to keep it liquid. Anger quickly taking the place of frustration, he kicked the cauldron off the heat and swept an arm across a bench loaded with glassware with a roar that overshadowed the sound of it smashing on the floor. Students quickly looked to the skies for a dragon, others looked to the bathrooms for a Basilisk, and Albus simply smiled and popped another lemon drop in his mouth as the bellow echoed around the school.
Looking amazedly at the shattered glassware on the floor, and the pieces of solid potion scattered around the cauldron, Severus wondered if he wasn't starting to show the signs of years in the Dark Lord's service. He couldn't believe it – his brewing was as bad as any 1st year that first walked into his classroom. And yet again Hermione Granger crossed his mind. 'Her brewing has never been bad – ever' a little voice inside his head commented. "SHUT UP!" He roared again, was he now going mad too? Severus Snape, master spy to the Order of the Phoenix, Potions Master and Death Eater was losing control of himself. This was impossible. With a snarl, he Vanished the now useless glassware, potion and cauldron, and stalked up to his private training room at the top of the south tower.
Upon reaching the room, he gazed out one of the windows down towards the Great Lake and the Forbidden Forest. When had he ever allowed himself to get this out of control? He had never been able to have the luxury of mistakes, and now he was losing himself. Reflecting on all the events since the fall of the Dark Lord, he realised what he was missing – he had no reason to live, was just simply carrying out the life he had lived for years, but now without the threat of a Summons, or a call to raid, or the commonplace Crucio to toe the line to. He had no purpose. What does one do when they have no purpose in life? 'I guess this is what Muggles call a mid-life crisis' he joked to himself.
But what to do indeed. If he carried on this way, surely he would cause himself – or someone else – a serious injury. And why the association to the know-it-all? It wasn't like his lack of drive and Granger had anything in common. Snape was going crazy – he was analysing himself as if he were a case he were working on for St Mungo's.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he stripped down to his black pants and shirt, and fell into one of the weapons training regimes he often put himself through. The weight of the sword was familiar in his hand, the movements' fluid and the strikes always true. The rhythm fixated him; all he could hear was the ring of metal through air. He squarely took aim at conjured targets, letting go of his power, magic and rage in a manner that allowed its release, but was focussed all the same. No energy wasted, he moved from target to target, bringing each down in a series of precise, remembered strokes. It was as if he was returning to an old friend, one he'd long forgotten, but knew so well he remembered each line, each blow, like it was his own face on each of the opponents he was cutting down.
Coming down from his high, the adrenaline pumping through him, sweat pouring off his back, he vaguely realised that this may have been the reason he was losing control. These routines required discipline, concentration, focus – things he was lacking at the moment, and qualities he had been neglecting since the end of the war. Traits like these would also be needed to be able to deal with the Granger girl.
He stood a little straighter, freshened himself up, tied his hair back – but did not replace his robes. He made a decision - if the Granger girl appeared to be making a change, then so should he. He would begin training again, working on his skills, body and mind. He would regain his control and apply it to research, his one true passion. He would throw himself into terrorising the first years, regain control of his classroom and his reputation. Hell, he might even fix up Spinner's End and his other estates he'd let fall into disrepair. He had no reason to live, so he was going to make a reason.
People had given him a reason all his life – it was time to make his own.