The universe was mocking her. Surely, the way everything had gone so spectacularly tits up was some kind of joke. It took all she had to laugh at it all in her head, because if she didn't, she'd surely end up paralysed by terror instead.
The usually joyous holiday passed in a whirlwind of frightening updates which came only in whispers and widened eyes. Arthur Weasley's return to his family wasn't as reassuring as she'd anticipated; the horrible marks on his face and hands lingered in her periphery. She couldn't look away, but she didn't want to stare, so she ended up avoiding him altogether and feeling terrible for it instead.
Meanwhile, Harry dug himself deeper into a pit of misery and self-loathing that no-one could properly bring him out of. Ron watched helplessly as his father sat weakly at the dinner table and his best friend self-destructed.
All in all, she was quite keen to return to Hogwarts.
Even when she found herself in the dungeons again, painstakingly grinding marble into a fine powder.
"Miss Granger, that —"
"It's not soft enough yet, I know. Sorry, sir."
"As this is the last batch I will be observing, it is imperative you say something if there is any confusion whatsoever. To do otherwise could be extremely dangerous. Do I make myself clear?" Hermione and Draco nodded obediently, the former working the pestle and mortar with all her might while the latter poured hare's blood through a silver strainer. "Speaking of observations, it is my pleasure to inform you both that our High Inquisitor has decided to inspect our little gathering tomorrow evening."
"What?" cried Hermione, marble forgotten. "But the latest decree only prohibits teachers from giving information that's not related to the subjects they teach. This is a potion!"
"Indeed," Snape remarked, and his glare drove her gaze back to the task at hand. "However, she wishes to verify that for herself, and far be it from I to deny her. I'm sure she will be devastated to find nothing more than supplementary instruction for two high-performing students with an interest in advanced ingredient preparation."
Hermione's anger deflated into tired resignation.
Understood, sir.
"Should we talk to him, d'you think?"
"I'm not sure, Ron… Didn't he tell you he wanted some time alone?"
"Yeah, to 'practice Occlumency.' Sounds like rubbish to me."
"Oh?" asked Hermione airily as she turned a page. Across the table, Ron fidgeted with his quill and his eyes darted around the common room. "Which part is rubbish: Occlumency itself or Harry's practicing it?"
"Both, I reckon. He told you what Snape told him, right? I don't see how getting Harry's head in order is going to prevent You-Know-Who from getting in it."
Transfiguration of neutral objects into frozen ones requires particular skill, wrote Hermione. "Honestly, from what I've read on Occlumency and Legilimency, that kind of mental discipline is incredibly important." Frowning, she flipped back to the book's appendix. Where had she found that quote — the one on sharp wrist movements? "I'm just not sure Snape is the right person to teach it."
Ron snorted. "Too much of a git."
"No." Here we are! "Temperature Transfigurations and Wand Gestures." She dipped her quill in ink; some of it dribbled onto her already smudged fingertips. "I mean that learning this kind of magic probably requires a lot of emotional… neutrality, I suppose. And Harry has such a difficult relationship with Professor Snape that I doubt he'll be able to easily achieve that."
"That's what I said: he's just too much of a git."
Hermione read over the paragraph she'd just finished. "Neither of them is too much of anything. Just a bad match together. That's all."
Ron thought this over while Hermione tapped her parchment with her wand, drying her half-written essay. She'd quickly learned that waiting too long would mean an hour's work smeared across her forearm.
"What about you?"
"What do you mean? I can't teach Harry Occlumency. I don't know how —"
"No, I mean how about you and Snape? You've seen him one-on-one nearly every day since October and you haven't killed each other yet. Harry's barely survived two days."
Rolling her eyes, Hermione shut her textbook and reached for the one beneath it. "We don't interact that much, really. Now that I know how the potion works, he barely says anything at all — let alone goes through my thoughts — unless I'm in danger of doing something wrong." She opened her book and gave Ron a pointed look. "Don't you also have an essay to write?"
Ron bashfully turned to his own ignored textbook and dipped his mangled quill in ink.
She read over her essay again — and then again. She still had three inches of analysis to go and had a fascinating theoretical suggestion she wanted to include somewhere, but her head was now completely void of Transfiguration theory.
I never told them about Malfoy.
Of course I didn't! Things are bad now — imagine if they did know.
Should I have done? It's too late, now, and they'll find out eventually. Won't they?
Does anyone even know, other than Snape? Lupin doesn't seem to…
Remus' appreciation had seemed sincere when he'd caught her at Grimmauld Place. "I hear you're the one cooking up my monthly dose," he'd chuckled, all warmth and gentility. Sometimes she wondered how the ferocious animal coexisted with his genial personality. Memory of his transformation still haunted her nightmares sometimes, not that she'd ever tell him that. "That recipe isn't easy. I am truly grateful for it, Hermione. Thank you." She had smiled at him and politely dodged the rest of his compliments. They felt so undeserved.
Didn't Malfoy deserve some of that praise? He'd done just as much work.
But did it matter if he didn't care about the good it did?
She didn't know, but she felt like it should.
"Hermione?"
"What?" she snapped.
"Sorry, it's just, erm… Could you tell me which chapter has the bit on wrist movements for colour transfigurations? I'll do the reading, I promise, I just can't find the chapter…"
Looking at her own half-done essay and the three textbooks open in front of her, she sighed and nudged the relevant book in his direction. "Here, just take mine. It's in better condition. Look in the appendix; I've made some notes there"
"Really? Thanks. I'll give it back when I'm done, promise…" He looked at her funny, then, the way she eyed Fred and George's latest creations.
"What is it, Ronald?"
"You're pulling your own hair again. Is this essay really that awful?"
Hermione dropped her hands from where they'd been clenching near her scalp, probably making her look a bit wild. Malfoy's voice chuckled in her head. You should've seen your hair after you'd been asleep on a classroom floor. She huffed.
"It's fine, Ron. I'm going to go see if Harry's alright."
Hogwarts was eerie at night. She hated the hollow thump of her shoes against the empty corridors as she travelled down to the dungeons. It was worse in the winter, with its short days and heavy nights. She wished she could be in the golden warmth of her bed instead of here, wrapped in her cloak and trying to convince herself that this would be fine, that Umbridge would not make an already terrible situation worse, that Draco —
"Ah, there she is! Good evening, Granger."
Hermione eyed Malfoy and Umbridge, standing beside him. By the looks of it, their conversation had been pleasant, but Umbridge had a look in her eyes that made Hermione suspect she would not be offered the same privilege.
"Good evening, Malfoy, High Inquisitor." Umbridge seemed to puff up a little at that, like some excessively feathered pink bird. Hermione tried very hard not to roll her eyes and instead gestured at the door. "Are we waiting for Professor Snape?"
"Yes, Miss Granger," chirped Umbridge. "Severus has been kind enough to invite me to see the remarkable work you two have been doing. You must be incredibly grateful for the privilege, I'm sure."
"Yes, of course…"
"Draco here tells me that you two approached Professor Snape, is that true?"
From behind Umbridge's pink shoulder, Draco raised his eyebrows. What did I tell you? Strawberry. Dead ringer.
"Yes, er, we did."
"Quite audacious of you, is it not? Professor Snape is, after all, a master of his craft. What made you think you deserve to impede upon his time in such a manner? You must think incredibly highly of your potioneering."
"Oh, I just — I just really like Potions, is all. It's an art form in itself, don't you think?"
"Oh, yes, quite."
Draco rolled his eyes. Hermione invested all her energy in keeping a straight face.
"I'm grateful that Professor Snape thinks Draco and I are worthy of this extra tutelage —"
"I'm sure, dear, I'm sure. After all, it's not often someone like you gets to do something special like this, is it?"
"What? I —"
Draco pulled a face like he'd just eaten a lemon, and Hermione faltered just in time for him to drawl all over her unfinished sentence, "Well, that's why Professor Snape is so generous, isn't he? Allowing pupils of all… backgrounds to participate in advanced study. As a Hogwarts Governor, my father —"
"Oh, yes, Mr Malfoy! I've had the privilege of working with your father several times now, you know — Ah, Severus! There you are." Umbridge strode importantly into the classroom behind Professor Snape's imposing figure, leaving Draco and Hermione to follow behind.
Hermione couldn't say she had been looking forward to this, but it became rapidly clear that it would not play out how she'd expected. Gone was any evidence of Wolfsbane at all; Hermione hovered awkwardly near their usual benchtop and waited for instruction, wondering how she was supposed to play this. Sneaking glances at Draco, she saw his casual posture and neutral smile, all ease and nonchalance as Umbridge pestered Professor Snape with all sorts of meaningless questions.
"High Inquisitor, as I would not wish to waste your time, perhaps we had best get on with the evening's lesson?"
The sarcasm in Snape's voice should have burned skin, but Umbridge remained oblivious, instead exclaiming in surprised delight when an array of ingredients appeared in front of Hermione and Draco.
"As we wouldn't want to burden these pupils with potions above their level —"
"No, no of course not —"
"— I have been instructing them in the finer points of ingredient preparation."
"Ah, lovely!"
"It is an often-overlooked part of brewing and, unfortunately, the robust O.W.L. curriculum does not allow enough time for students to learn."
"I see — perhaps if I speak to the board, or even the Minister —"
"Tonight," he addressed the two of them, and Hermione's heart sank as she looked at the array of ingredients, "you will grind asphodel roots, dehydrate silverweed, and harvest the blood and spleen of a common bat. You may begin."
Hermione looked at Draco, who looked back at her, and then sorted through the ingredients with resignation.
"Don't suppose you want to do the bat?" Draco murmured.
Wrinkling her nose, Hermione answered, "Can we leave it for the end? Here." She nudged the mortar and pestle in his direction. "I did it yesterday. Perhaps you'd like a go."
If he could, Hermione suspected he'd sigh dramatically. As it was, he accepted the tools in silence and began to slice the asphodel into small pieces whilst Hermione carefully dried the silverweed one by one. Silence reigned, save for the rough grinding of the roots into powder, the crackling of dried plants, and Umbridge's incessant pestering.
"I trust you'd never ask them to prepare dangerous substances, Severus."
"As the ingredients they prepare are to be used in lessons, they will never handle anything not already sanctioned by your curriculum, High Inquisitor."
"I see…" The scratch of her quill. "And for what lesson are all these for, if I might ask?"
"A variety," answered Snape, and with such ease that she wondered if any of it was a lie at all. Her eyes flicked to Malfoy beside her but found him frowning into the mortar. Surely he found this ridiculous, too? "The bat spleens, for example, will be used next week by the second years."
"I see, I see…"
Onwards she went, chirping meaningless questions and scratching on her parchment. Hermione did her best to ignore her and, when Umbridge suggested that Hermione and Draco swap tasks, she complied without complaint. Draining the bat and extracting its spleen proved to be a predictably horrible and gory exercise, and Hermione took substantial pleasure that Draco seemed just as revolted.
It wasn't until all the ingredients were adequately prepared and stored that Umbridge declared the venture an admirable success and praised Snape and Draco (Hermione scoffed quietly at the blatant exclusion) for showing such initiative.
"Thank you, High Inquisitor," responded Draco, "and can I say how grateful I am that we have your permission to continue our extracurricular training."
Umbridge gave him a disgusting smile and left, and Hermione wondered if she realised she'd never actually given permission at all.
The precious beat of silence after the door closed didn't last long enough.
"This phase of brewing requires little more than watching, as you know, so you will do it on your own tonight. You will call me if you require assistance. Bubble-Head Charms, please."
They cast the charm, Snape removed the last hour's work and replaced it with the silver cauldron, and then they were alone.
Hermione sighed, exhausted.
"You know, I really thought he'd let us go once she'd had her fun," said Draco after a pause. "Guess that was foolish."
Truthfully, Hermione had thought the same. "Come on, this will only take — what, forty minutes? And then we can go to bed." She yawned and reached for the bottle of hare's blood, trying not to imagine how it had been acquired. She'd never be able to look at a bat again, not after watching a dead one bleed out for twenty minutes.
When the blood had been administered, they sat back to watch the potion pulse through its many shades until it settled on something in the baby blue range.
"You look wrecked, Granger. Gryffindor bravado keeping you up at night? Holiday not as relaxing as you hoped?"
Hermione frowned. Between Mr Weasley's injury, Harry's subsequent paranoia, the disturbing encounter with Neville's parents… No, her holiday had not been particularly relaxing, Christmas jumper aside.
Draco, however, seemed preoccupied. "Do you go home for holidays?"
"Home? As in my parents?"
Draco nodded.
"Sometimes…" Hermione bristled; what was his point in asking her this? "I haven't lately but usually, yes, I do."
Draco appeared to mull this over. "Must be weird," he declared eventually.
"'Weird?'"
"Going back and forth, I mean. How can you stand going from this" — he gestured around them — "to… Muggles?"
Hermione shrugged. "It's not that complicated. Regardless, I wouldn't be able to do magic even if my parents were wizards. It takes a few days to get used to it all again, but that's a bit exciting, isn't it? Suddenly the telly is this marvellous new thing."
"'Telly?'"
"It's like — never mind. I can explain later if you really want to know."
Draco frowned, clearly lost in thought, and Hermione watched him nervously. Finally, he asked, "Why in Merlin's name would you go back?"
"Because they're my family!" Hermione exclaimed, horrified. "I love them!"
"But they can't love you! You're a witch!"
Hermione's mouth opened and closed again as she stared, struck dumb by his words, and torn between screaming at him in rage and the stunning realisation that he'd never actually thought of Muggles as people before.
A thousand answers battled in her mind, from logical dissections of his fallacious argument to storming from the room in incoherent rage. Did he honestly think her parents — or any Muggle at all! — would react in such a way when encountering magic?
Was he wrong? Knowledge of Harry's treatment by his aunt and uncle still kept her up at night, sometimes. But surely they were outliers? How many students had passed through Hogwarts with loving and accepting Muggle relatives?
She'd been quiet for too long. Malfoy was looking at her with an odd mix of victory and curiosity.
Her eyes narrowed and she pressed her lips together. "Your information is out of date," was all she said, eventually.
"So your —"
"My parents don't care, alright, Malfoy? They really don't. I tell them about the term when I visit, and how my friends are, and it isn't much different from Muggle school. They try to learn and understand how — how it's different, sometimes, like what subjects I study, and they're honestly quite lovely about it. I'm sure most other Muggle-born or half-blood students would say the same."
"I find that hard to believe."
Throwing her hands up, Hermione cried, "Too bad! I'm not sure what you want, Draco. Is my word not good enough? The experience of every other person in my position? Maybe try talking to people before just deciding to believe something without foundation."
"There is plenty of foundation for —"
"Your information is out of date; I told you. Witch hunts and the like stopped centuries ago. You're fighting an enemy that doesn't exist anymore." This conversation had grown very fatiguing, very quickly. "My parents asked me about that, you know. When we first found out I'm a witch…" She swallowed; she had never confessed this to anyone, and she had no idea why she was doing it for him. "They were so nervous that the magical community thought badly of Muggles for things which had happened hundreds of years ago, or that people at Hogwarts would think less of me because I didn't grow up in a magical family."
"Your parents were right."
Hermione's gaze wandered the room, unseeing. She didn't want to look at him and find whatever emotion was in his pale eyes. "I told them that some people do have a little resentment, still, and think that people with Muggle heritage can't do magic as well as they can." Oh, this was ridiculous. He had no right to know any of this. Yet with a bitter sigh, she pressed on. "And then I told them that they all changed their minds when they saw how quickly I learned and how hard I worked." Embarrassingly naïve, in hindsight. She looked at him sharply in case he'd had a similar thought. "I was twelve. I didn't think it was a big deal. And I didn't want them to worry and not let me come back."
Hermione stared into the potion which now sported a pale shade of yellow. "They still don't know anything, not about the war twenty years ago or Harry or V-Voldemort. They've no idea what's happening."
A pensive moment passed, slow and viscous like the swirling of the potion.
"Why? What would they do if they knew?"
Hermione shrugged. "I'm not totally sure, to be honest. I doubt they'd let me come back to school, but they couldn't very well keep me in the Muggle world, could they?" She covered a sudden yawn, but her eyes had begun to water; an hour of Umbridge's irritating observance and now this interrogation were all a bit much. There couldn't be more than a few minutes left for the potion, at best, and then she would sprint to her bed if she had to.
With a final huff, she declared, "Regardless of where I go, I'm always not quite welcome, Malfoy. That's what it comes down to, really."
Draco, on his part, appeared cautiously thoughtful, and she thought back to her initial impression that he'd never actually bothered to wonder what it must be like to be anyone other than himself.
The potion throbbed and, in gentle pulses, slowly became a cooler shade, like the milkiness of the sky at dawn.
Done!
Once Draco cast the protection charms on the cauldron to let it marinate overnight, Hermione delicately placed the remaining hare's blood nearby. With no sign of Snape, they quietly left the classroom.
The first thing she noticed when she removed the Bubble-Head was the dusty smell of the corridor. The second was that her eyes hadn't stopped watering; she swiped away the droplets from her cheeks.
God, she was so tired.
It was only January.
Why must Gryffindor Tower be so far away? she thought miserably.
Straightening her bag on her shoulder, she began her trek.
"Good night, Draco."
She was nearly out of earshot when she heard his soft reply.
"Good night, Granger."
