"You what?"
"I know you're the Ha—"
The door slammed shut before she could finish.
"I heard you the first time, Granger!" Snape seethed. "Explain yourself."
Hermione shifted on her feet, keenly aware she was stuck in a room alone with a very angry Professor Snape. "Well — er — Harry got your old Potions textbook. It was in the school's collection. It had all your annotations in it and — and in the cover it said, 'This book is the property of the Half-Blood Prince.'"
"Do you mean to tell me that this is why I've had to endure months of Slughorn telling me Potter is the next Belby? Because he was using my notes?"
"Believe me, sir, I tried to convince him to hand it back in. He wouldn't listen. Not until…"
"Until?"
"He started trying the spells and got scared," she said quietly.
"And where is the book now? Floating around the communal book pool?"
"Ginny has it. Ginny Weasley. And she knows not to try anything in there, even the recipe modifications. You can check her Potions marks. She's perfectly average."
Snape looked like he'd been struck.
"They don't know it was you," she rushed on, "and I won't tell them. Well, not unless you want me to. I only just worked it out because of a memory we saw, that Dumbledore left us. It was only a few seconds of you as a student, but I noticed you annotated your textbooks, like I do. And then I recognised the handwriting…" She couldn't help but look back to where that spiky scrawl covered the span of the blackboard. It had changed very little since he was sixteen.
"I see," said Snape lowly. "And would you like House points for your discovery?"
"What? No! I — I'm telling you this because I have a question. About one of the spells you created."
"Oh? Which one?"
"'For enemies.'"
He looked at her sharply. "Is that what scared Potter off?"
"Yes — he tried it on a gnome. No-one got hurt. Well, no-one but the gnome."
"And you wish to know…?"
"How to use it. You just taught us how to disable an opponent. I want to know how I can use it to protect myself."
Professor Snape considered her, arms crossed. Eventually, he said, "When used without precision, that spell is lethal, Miss Granger."
Hermione jutted out her chin. "Sometimes that's necessary, isn't it? And we can't all use Unforgivables all the time."
"In this instance, it would be kinder," muttered Snape darkly. She expected him to throw her out, even report her impertinent and inappropriate questions to McGonagall. Instead, he gave her that same guarded look and said, "It is Dark Magic. You know better than most that it relies on the caster's emotional state more than anything else. That is why the spell is for enemies, Miss Granger. I'm sure you would have no trouble. One must find the concentration to be deliberate in their aim, and that cannot be taught."
Hermione stood very still, as though moving might remind Professor Snape he shouldn't be telling her any of this. "I — I understand," she said slowly. "Thank you."
But before she could even think about leaving, Snape went on, almost too casually, "I understand that you and Mr Malfoy have been brewing the Wolfsbane exceptionally well, if Lupin's report — and the fact he is still alive — is to be trusted."
"Yes, sir. Thank you."
"It is a difficult, time-consuming recipe."
"Yes, but I think we've both got used to it. It's been nearly two years, now."
"Indeed. Perhaps it would behove you to know, Miss Granger, that Mr Malfoy is an adequate Occlumens."
"I-is he?" Hermione faltered, now very much aware that the conversation had veered in a totally different direction.
"Yes. Adequate, but not exceptional. He is able to keep most of his secrets obscured, but not all."
Then he looked at her with such significance that Hermione wanted to curl up right then and there. She felt heat scorch her cheeks. Snape could mean anything — had he seen Draco snogging her against the bookcase, his hands creeping under her shirt? Or just a vague, fond emotional residue whenever her face floated through his mind? Was he trying to signal his disapproval? Were they in danger? Hermione couldn't think straight; her brain had accelerated so fast out of her control. She was entirely at his mercy, and he knew it.
"So you see, Miss Granger," he said with far too much civility, "I… appreciate your keeping my secret." You keep mine, I'll keep yours.
Hermione swallowed. "Of course. Sir."
He cocked his head in the direction of the door and Hermione left before she had to spend another second being looked at by those dark, piercing eyes.
"Well, we know there's something fucked up about his family."
"Yeah, but why would he want us to know that?"
"Dunno. Maybe it's one of those things, like when you die, you need to make sure there's someone else who knows?"
"Aberforth knows," Hermione interjected, "but he won't answer my letters and the Room won't let us visit Hogsmeade."
"Great."
"There's more to it, though." Harry leaned back in his chair, nearly tumbling back into the bookshelf behind him. Hermione slid her fingers around her wand, just in case. "Something about his family, or how he grew up… and then Snape… and the duel — you said you think it's with Grindelwald, Hermione? Right. So there's that… a wand… m-my dad…"
"Your dad's Cloak," Hermione corrected. She was itching to write this all down; if she could just see it on parchment, then maybe she could work it out. Instead, she stared at the late-September sunshine, splashed across the ancient table they were sat at in the library. The Moon would be rising soon, but she hated to keep leaving this unsolved.
"He's trying to tell us something," repeated Harry softly, as he often did these days. "There's just a few pieces missing, I know it…"
"Maybe he knew who R.A.B. was?" offered Ron.
Harry shook his head. "If he knew the locket had been replaced, he would've told me. He wouldn't have gone through with it like that." He wouldn't have died for it.
"We could always ask McGonagall. Or Slughorn, since he's been here since for-fucking-ever."
"Ron, that's…. that's brilliant. We can ask Minerva after the next meeting if she knew an R.A.B. in the last fifty years." Harry looked up. "Can you make that one, Hermione?"
"Next week? I think so. The Wolfsbane should be done then, and I'll be free that whole week before the Full Moon. Well, not free, but slightly less busy."
"Excellent."
"I've got to go soon, actually. Don't wait up for me. I won't be back until after curfew."
"Merlin, what on Earth does this potion need tonight?" wondered Ron.
Hermione sighed. "We've got to juice these stems one drop at a time, one every seventeen minutes, and then stir them in very specific ways."
Ron whistled low. "I'm good, thanks."
"Mm. It was awful at the beginning, but now that we're used to it, it's just boring, really."
"How do you not go mad?"
Hermione shrugged. "We can do homework while we wait between drops. Or — or we talk."
Harry raised an eyebrow.
Hermione began to pack away her things, avoiding their eyes as she said as casually as she could, "He helped me revise for O.W.L.s, you know. We quizzed each other. He's good at Transfiguration."
"Huh," said Harry, fiddling with his wand as he stared in the middle distance, probably still thinking about Dumbledore. "And he really doesn't call you names anymore, or anything?"
"No. He hasn't in a while, actually."
"Interesting."
"I still don't trust him," insisted Ron.
"I didn't say I do, either," Hermione retorted defensively. "But I really do have to go. See you tomorrow?"
"Yeah, tomorrow. Bye, Hermione."
She slung her bag onto her shoulder and navigated through the maze of shelves, feeling strangely guilty, though nothing she'd said had been a lie. The journey to the lab felt longer than usual; she tried very hard not to think about anything except aconite and demi-stirs.
Draco was waiting for her, as he always was, and they fell into a familiar routine. She put her bag on the hook, checked that the potion looked as it ought to, glanced at the recipe, and then began the night's job with the materials Draco had already set out. It was arduous and took far too long, as always, and Hermione wished it required more hands-on work, but by the third round she'd settled into the familiarity of it all.
"How's your shoulder?" Draco asked after several long minutes of pleasant silence.
"How's your knee?" she countered.
He huffed. "Kept me up last night, I won't lie. You were relentless."
"Did you want me to go easy on you?"
He grinned. "Never."
Hermione pictured him as he'd thrown himself to the floor, still unable to fully dodge her nonverbal Stinging Hex. It had skimmed his arse and she'd barely managed to keep herself from laughing. He'd retaliated when it was his turn, but never quite managed to match her. He was good, but she was better. After the D.A. and the Department of Mysteries, she had more experience, and she'd felt smug about it since she'd seen him limping back to his common room.
"Madame Pomfrey stopped by this morning to give us all a general Healing Potion," Draco explained. "I think Blaise had it worse; he landed on his wrist and fractured it. I wouldn't be surprised if Pomfrey's gone to go shout at Snape as we speak."
"She came to us, too." If she hadn't, Hermione may not have been able to do the stirs. She'd never quite got used to how easily magic could heal even the worst injuries. In this world, broken bones were as insignificant as papercuts.
Just then, the timer dinged, and they set about their next round of dropping and stirring. When that was finished, Draco pulled out his Charms textbook. Hermione had done the reading already; she worked on her History essay instead.
The hours passed comfortably as they progressed through assignments and conversations. It was only when they were finishing up the last round that the first tremor began.
Hermione froze where she was, stirring rod still in hand, hovering over the potion. "What was that?"
Draco looked around the lab; the scales on the shelf were still swinging. "Earthquake?"
"In Scotland?"
"Maybe — maybe it's a Weasley thing —"
Again, stronger this time. Hermione held onto the cauldron, as though that would stop the potion sloshing around inside. She'd never experienced anything like this at Hogwarts and the things she imagined could be causing it only grew more and more sinister as the seconds passed.
The castle shook a third time, the strongest yet.
"Let's — let's go see what's going on." Hermione didn't fancy being below ground anymore. Draco must have agreed, because he followed her out, both of them leaving their bags behind.
Outside, there were distant sounds of… something. Something most definitely not good. She moved into a jog, then a run as the castle shook once more. They were getting closer together and more violent. She stumbled up to the first floor and, for lack of anywhere else to go, in the direction of the Entrance Hall. Draco's footsteps followed her, just like the night Dumbledore had died. Always trusting, even when she ran headfirst into danger.
Hermione skidded to a halt at the sight of most of the staff huddled in the Entrance Hall. Some other students — mostly older ones — lingered by the Great Hall, looking nervous.
"Headmistress?" panted Hermione. "What's going on?"
McGonagall was wearing a tartan dressing gown, her hair loose. Only Professor Snape was properly dressed. Did he ever sleep?
"That is something we are still trying to determine, Miss Granger."
The castle shook; a student screamed in fright, and then Harry and Ron came barrelling into the Entrance Hall, both dressed, but flushed and sweaty. Before either of them could say anything, there was another tremor and the sound of spells impacting outside.
The headmistress hurried toward the door and, after a complicated incantation, it parted for her, just enough to see outside. Hermione craned her neck and saw the flash of spellfire. "They're attacking the grounds," breathed McGonagall, her face ashen, then she slammed the door shut and turned around.
"Prefects! Escort your pupils back to your common rooms and do not permit anyone to enter. Am I understood?" Nods and grumbles. "Teachers, if you will assist me?"
The students dispersed in a hurry back to the depths of the castle whilst the staff eyed each other seriously. Despite Hermione, Draco, and Ron's status as prefect, none of them moved. Harry was staring at the door as though he could open it with his mind.
The shakes had become nearly constant now, the explosions outside getting bigger. Then, there was a shout, a familiar voice Hermione recognised as —
"Hagrid?"
McGonagall opened the door again, this time fully, and the teachers rushed out with their wands raised. Harry followed, and Ron followed him, so Hermione followed Ron and Draco followed after her.
Hermione found herself on the brink of pandemonium. Beyond the wards was a rain of spellfire, crashing against the magic or into the ground. Hagrid, whose hut was still within the perimeter, was waving his umbrella and shouting, wild sparks flying around him.
"Rubeus!" called McGonagall, rushing down the damp hill to where he was.
"They just appeared, headmistress," he reported, looking more imposing than Hermione had ever seen. "They're concentrated on the far bank of the lake — not sure why, but I don't think they're attacking the school directly, but Grawp's out there —"
"It's Dumbledore," Harry said.
"Potter?"
"It's Dumbledore — they're going for Dumbledore's tomb!" And then he sprinted forwards like a bullet, right through the wards.
"HARRY!" Hermione and Ron both cried and followed him, shoes squelching in the mud.
"Hermione — fuck — no — what are you doing!" Draco's hand came around her wrist in a failed attempt to stop her, and then he was running with her, too.
The wards felt cool on her skin, like passing through a sheet of water, and then there was magic everywhere, dancing around figures shrouded in black. She heard cries of "It's Potter!" and felt her body tremble with adrenaline. What had Harry been thinking?
But it was too late for that. All she could do now was aim and cast and dodge.
"Expelliarmus!"
"Protego!"
"Stupefy!"
She darted around the flying jets of light, always trying to keep Harry and Ron in her periphery. If she could hear their spells, she knew they were alive. Draco was so close she could feel him, but before he could raise his wand he crumpled to the ground, screaming, and Hermione saw the back of his shirt colour red with fresh blood.
"NO!" She dropped to her knees, mud soaking through her robes. He wasn't dead — he was screaming too much to be dead — but the blood was still coming and —
A beam of green light missed her by inches. Still crouching in the dirt, she extended one arm protectively over Draco's body and aimed her wand in every direction.
"Stupefy!" she cried, voice hoarse, joining a chorus of paltry defensive spells from Harry and Ron. It wasn't working; none of this was working. A black figure came into view, thrown into relief by an explosion of pale magic, and before she could think she pointed her wand and screamed, "Sectumsempra!"
He went flying backwards, disappearing into the darkness as the magical explosion faded.
"Hermione!"
She looked to her right and saw Ron several metres away looking at her with desperation. "We have to go!" He nodded his head in the direction they'd come and Hermione's heart dropped when she saw nothing but a dark, empty landscape. Hogwarts was gone.
"Hermione, come on!" Ron called and she saw him take Harry's elbow before they both disappeared with a crack, leaving her alone.
The Death Eaters were advancing; she had seconds, if that. Draco was still on the ground, making sounds of pain, the back of his shirt filthy with blood and dirt.
"It's alright," she told him senselessly. "It'll be alright, okay?"
Hermione grabbed his bicep as tightly as she could and squeezed her wand in her other hand. Closing her eyes, she thought of dust and mothballs and safety.
Destination, determination, deliberation.
There was a crack and, just before she felt her organs turn inside-out, she pulled Draco close and whispered, "The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix is Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place."
