Hermione stumbled back into Gryffindor Tower with aching legs and an angry sort of sadness in her veins. Why Snape thought they would learn better without stools was beyond her; after nearly two hours of standing and watching and biting her tongue, her legs and feet felt too sore for her to focus on anything but her own exhaustion. It was past ten o'clock now and she had Herbology early tomorrow. Unusually early Herbology, too, as henbane could only be harvested at dawn.
She was fairly certain that Snape had only held them for so long as some sort of intimidation tactic. The only work he'd actually done was preparing the aconite flowers and placing them in the cauldron to marinate. Even with the pace slowed for their benefit, that had only taken thirty minutes, but then he'd spent the rest of the time painstakingly reciting every bloody detail of the recipe. To be fair, some of the procedural notes were helpful, but Hermione hardly thought it was pragmatic to instruct them when there were still weeks before the skills would be practiced, and she couldn't even write them down. Evidently, Snape's love of frustrating his students trumped his pleasure in being rid of them.
Hermione scoffed bitterly as she dropped onto her bed. So much for his not having enough time!
With sleepy movements, she donned her pyjamas and checked over her school things for tomorrow, as tonight's casualties included her favourite pot of ink and a good two hours of homework time.
"Accio inkpot," Hermione mumbled, aiming her wand at her trunk, but the thing didn't so much as twitch. She'd been meaning to buy another pot after Crookshanks had destroyed her spare. Now she'd have to borrow someone else's. How humiliating.
She wanted to cry. The tears were ready, fighting her eyes with burning punches, but she couldn't — wouldn'tallow Snape or Malfoy that victory. They all made great fun of her for being weepy and hysterical; she couldn't give substance to their teasing.
Damn them, she thought. Damn them for making me so angry and then ashamed of my own anger! Bastards!
Professor Snape, she could almost forgive. She knew he was just doing his duty, albeit awfully. But Malfoy was inexcusable.
Hermione's thoughts became more and more broken, incoherent as sleep tugged her down into oblivion.
At first, it felt strange to head down to the dungeons alone at odd hours nearly every day. Reading the recipe alone hadn't been enough to appreciate the rather ridiculous brewing schedule Wolfsbane required and having to borrow Harry's ink in Herbology the next morning had only been the start of its disruption. Honestly, it was a wonder the potion had been invented at all, with needs like this. Harry and Ron quickly learned to appreciate it, too, because it greatly decreased their access to Hermione: Free Essay-Writer and Homework Tutor. That was something Hermione did appreciate.
But it didn't take too long to grow accustomed to her new obligation, just like she quickly adapted to the sly jabs thrown her way by Malfoy and Professor Snape during their sessions. Subtle remarks about her appearance, talents and, in Malfoy's case, ancestry. She didn't dare rebuke and kept her speaking strictly to polite greetings and straightforward questions.
"As the aconite marinates, we will be at risk of inhaling fumes. As I do not wish to die today, nor sweep your bodies from the floor, cast your Bubble-Head Charms now before I retrieve the cauldron."
"Excuse me, sir, but is there a larger variation of the Bubble-Head? I fear Miss Granger's hair may not fit inside, and then the charm would be rather useless, wouldn't it?"
"Now, Miss Granger, do pay particular attention here. I understand you have an unfortunate history of mistaking one ingredient for another, and I do not intend to clean up fur balls tonight."
Hermione took it all in silence, and it was almost worth the humiliation when she caught Malfoy's frustrated glares and frowns at her total lack of response.
But sometimes, in her unguarded moments before she fell asleep or when she read, armies of their voices would invade her head — never-ending echoes of smirking insults and cruel jabs. It didn't really bother her when they said it, but she couldn't help it when she was at her most vulnerable.
It hurt.
And that wasn't even the worst thing on her plate. Umbridge's teaching made for a rather unappetising dish and the rising Death Eater activity was a growing shadow creeping through the castle. Notable Slytherins, Malfoy included, had started to behave differently, like they owned the place, whilst the Muggle-borns and half-bloods read the Prophetwith fearful eyes and peered around corners before turning. The student body and wizarding society as a whole was on the brink of fracture and the Ministry was bearing the strain of it. Hermione could already see the cracks in the foundations and knew it wouldn't be long before the whole thing buckled.
Amidst all this, Harry was still treated with derision and suspicion by friends and strangers alike. The number of detentions given to him by Umbridge had to be some sort of Hogwarts record. It frayed his temper and he became moody, reclusive and prone to outbursts; hardly the ideal temperament, Hermione thought, for the icon of a movement!
In short, the pressure was enormous, and Hermione didn't know what to do except keep trudging forwards. Moments of joy came in small packages: laughter at meals, cheerful banter over butterbeer in Hogsmeade (where she bought not one but three inkpots), exceptionally good marks on papers, and knowing with certainty that Malfoy was struggling quite a bit with the Wolfsbane.
Professor Snape truly was a master of his craft. It turned out that watching him those first three weeks had been vastly inadequate preparation for the real thing. By the time he had dispatched the perfectly brewed potion to Lupin and they began their turn, Hermione quickly realised that she and Malfoy would not be getting away with this easily. Even with her extensive studying, Hermione still had difficulty pulling off the finicky requirements of the recipe. Malfoy perhaps had more intuition when it came to potion-making, but his frustration was evident in the hard set of his jaw and the creasing between his eyebrows.
Hermione wondered if Snape had had a perverse stroke of genius in pairing them together: There was no way in hell they'd allow themselves to be upstaged by the other, so they both pushed themselves to absolute perfection. In some sort of infuriating way, it kept them in check.
But that didn't mean Hermione had to like it. Though the harassment lessened as Snape and Malfoy both focused (Malfoy on not screwing up and Snape on catching them if they did), Hermione never felt any more welcome than she had that first day. The three of them had a common goal in brewing, but it felt very much like a team of two versus one.
Naturally, as soon as the potion was done for the day, Malfoy got right back to it.
"Well done, Granger. If you ever want a job as a vegetable-chopping house-elf, I'd be glad to give you a recommendation," he mused after an hour of ingredient preparation whilst Snape secured their half-made potion in whatever warded cupboard he stored it. Hermione tossed her dragonhide gloves in her bag.
"Good night, Malfoy," she replied airily and flounced out the door.
Thankfully, she soon had a reprieve from Malfoy's taunting, the noxious ingredients, Umbridge, and all the rest of it. When she'd first proposed Harry become a defence mentor three weeks ago, Dumbledore's Army wasn't what she'd had in mind. The first meeting had been awkward to say the least, but now she eagerly hurried to the seventh floor to try and make the last half of tonight's. She could see the potential in this slightly uncomfortable group of students — the potential to actually do something important. She didn't think Harry could see it yet, but it was there, and it excited her.
When she at last slipped into the Room of Requirement, she found a dozen or so pairs of students timidly casting Stunning Spells at each other, absolutely mortified by the prospect of hurting one another. Very few hit their mark, most weakly fizzling at their opponent's feet.
Harry was stood beside Neville, trying to demonstrate the correct arm position and wand gesture for the spell. Neville's posture hunched in meek self-consciousness, but Hermione saw the determination in the firm grip of his wand and the pressing of his lips.
They made eye contact and Harry smiled with relief. "Hermione!" he called and beckoned her over.
"Hi, Hermione."
"Hello Harry, Neville. How's everything going?"
"Yeah, really well. Could you help Neville for a few minutes? I just want to go check on everyone else."
Hermione nodded as Harry dashed away in the direction of a particular Ravenclaw.
"It's alright, Hermione. You don't have to waste your time helping me. I'm not very good."
"Don't be silly, Neville." Hermione smiled and stood opposite Neville, holding her arms out in the hopes of making herself an encouraging target. "Here, try and Stun me. I won't let you hurt me."
Neville grimaced but raised his wand in Hermione's general direction.
"Try moving your wand a little to the right, Neville. You want your aim to be as centred as possible."
Neville's trembling hand shifted so that his wand pointed somewhat nearer to Hermione's sternum. "Stupefy," he muttered, and a mild beacon of light flowed weakly from his wand tip.
"That was good, Neville!"
The wizard in question answered her with a look of dull scepticism
"Here, try again, and this time try not to move your wand so much. Short, quick movements."
Neville lifted his arm, grit his teeth, and tried again.
"Hey, Hermione…"
"Yes, Harry?"
"Can I ask you something?"
Hermione sighed and looked down at her half-finished essay. She put her quill down and replaced the stopper on her inkpot. "Of course. What is it?"
Harry made an awkward gesture from his seat on the armchair a few paces away, clearly summoning her, and she obediently went to sit beside him. His voice was low and his eyes nervously casting about the room as he asked, "Look, I know Snape's a really foul git, but do you think you could ask him how things are going? With the Order, I mean."
"Harry —"
"I mean, you saw what happened with the Floo last week — Umbridge nearly caught us — and Padfoot can't really say anything in letters and no one else will even talk to me and I just… I need to know."
Hermione's heart sank. "I understand, Harry. I really do, I promise. But I can't."
"Why not? Just ask him —"
"I'm sorry, Harry." While Harry and Ron knew of her brewing sessions with Professor Snape, she still had not told them of her unwanted partner. She hadn't wanted to fuel their dislike of Snape any further or give them motivation to antagonise Malfoy. With the wizarding world on the verge of a nervous breakdown, Hermione thought they rather had enough to deal with as it was. "I don't think it's safe."
Harry frowned. "But I thought you trusted Snape."
"I do. I do trust him. It's just —" It would be so simple to tell him that Malfoy was the reason she couldn't talk to Snape during her Wolfsbane sessions, but instead all she said was, "Look, I'll see what I can do, but I can't make any promises."
A smile broke across Harry's face. "Thanks, Hermione."
She returned his smile with a thin one of her own and returned to her essay.
It wasn't that she felt embarrassed or ashamed of having to work with Malfoy. It hadn't been her decision in the first place, and she certainly didn't enjoy it, so no blame could be assigned to her. She knew, though, that Ron, and especially Harry, would take it personally that Malfoy, of all people, got to help the Order when they did not, even if that meant doing a task they wouldn't even enjoy and Malfoy did not know the purpose of.
And then there was the issue that this was her fight. She didn't want Harry or Ron to get involved, as they certainly would if they found out. Going after Malfoy would hardly improve Harry's already strained reputation.
Comforted by her rationalisation, Hermione uncorked her inkpot, ready to resume writing, but instead snorted as she found nonsensical fragments of her thoughts had bled onto the paper.
It is for this reason that the transfiguration of polarised substances, such as fighting Malfoy will just make things worse.
With a huff of frustration, Hermione dragged out a new sheet of parchment to recopy the whole thing.
"Excuse me, professor, may I have a quick word?"
Professor Snape looked up from the knife he was running against a cloth and surveyed her carefully. His eyes landed on Malfoy, who had been halfway out the door but now lingered in the threshold. Getting the point that he was unwanted, Malfoy strutted off with a sniff.
Professor Snape turned back to her with a long-suffering kind of look as he sheathed the clean knife in a leather roll. "And what is it I can do for you, Miss Granger?"
Hermione thought of Harry's lost, hopeless expression and pressed on. If this didn't end with rude sneers and derision, then she would be astounded. "Could you tell — I mean, do you know how things are going? With — with the Order, that is." The end of her question came out a whisper and she bit her tongue to keep herself from rambling.
But Professor Snape's expression remained unchanged as he focused that imperious stare on her. When he spoke, his voice was even and low. "Indeed, I do know 'how things are going.' Far more than you, I imagine. But despite that fact that I'm sure you are tripping over yourself for intelligence to fuel more suicide missions for you and your friends, I am afraid I am not at liberty to tell you anything. Good evening, Miss Granger."
Hermione opened her mouth to say something, to defend her common sense and assert that she was not looking for someone to save or an incident to spoil, but then thought better of it and clapped her mouth shut just as fast. "Thank you, sir. Good evening."
She hadn't expected anything else, really, though Harry evidently had. When she conveyed Snape's answer, Harry was irritable, frustrated, and insulted. Hermione told him in no uncertain terms to grow up and went to bed, leaving Ron to deal with him.
Crawling between the sheets, she wondered how they would make it through this year. It was barely three months in and already the fear and uncertainty were overwhelming. If Harry didn't sort himself out soon, then they were in for a right mess of a term.
Hermione wrapped her arms around herself; it was a bit chilly now that late autumn enveloped the castle. She needed to sleep. She had double Defence tomorrow. With the Slytherins.
With Malfoy.
