Hermione's bed smelled like a distillery. As she lay on her back, blinking at her surroundings in daylight, she saw the damp patches of brine on her bedsheets where the murtlap had dripped down her side, leaving a sticky crust behind. The murtlap in question was half-dry; it had slid down to her hip or onto the bed in a disgusting heap of flesh. Hermione hadn't had it in her to remove it as she fell asleep, nor had she undressed at all, save for dropping Harry's robes onto the floor so she could climb into bed.
Looking down, she saw her shirt still open, revealing her entire torso except for where her bra covered her sternum and breasts. Her scar bisected her down the middle, looking more ferocious than she'd ever seen. The edges of it were red and raised, inflamed like she'd been burned, and it shimmered in shades of blue and green and purple. Like a particularly vibrant piece of seaweed, she thought. Perhaps if she pretended she was a mermaid, it would hurt less.
She felt stiff and sore all over and, when she tried to sit up, found the band of her bra dug painfully into the irritated skin. Reaching around to undo it was impossible, so she cast a carefully aimed Slicing Hex at the material until it slid off, revealing a particularly aggravated bit of skin beneath.
The sun was up much higher than she would have wanted, but there was no way she could get away with not having a shower. It was a slow, painful business to get herself ready, and when she finally made it to the Great Hall, it seemed most people were finishing up their breakfast and preparing for the day's lessons.
Harry and Ron, however, were at their usual table, which had not been merged back into massive house tables despite the resumption of term. They looked at her with both relief and nervousness as she made her way to them, substantially slower than usual.
"Hi."
"Good morning."
She sat with great care.
"Are — er — how are you today?" stammered Harry. "We wanted to wait for you, but then you didn't come down, so we thought maybe you were already here, and then when you weren't…"
"I'm alright, Harry. It hurts a bit," she admitted when they gave her dubious looks, "but I'll be alright." Relieved they didn't appear to be upset with her, she reached for a crumpet.
She nearly dropped it when Harry said, "Malfoy's been staring at us all morning."
"Well," Ron corrected him diplomatically, "I don't think it's us he's been looking for."
Hermione swallowed nervously and resisted the urge to look behind her, instead carefully slathering her crumpet with butter. "He probably just wants to see if I'm okay," she said breezily.
"Why does he sit over there by himself, anyway?" wondered Ron.
"I — I don't know. I've never asked."
"Maybe you should." Harry frowned. "Might be useful information."
"I still have a hard time believing he's not having us on."
"Ron," Hermione started, exasperated, "he was there when we took the memory for Slughorn. He helped. And he was there the night Dumbledore — you know. And he helped then, too! How many opportunities has he had to dob us in? Besides, McGonagall's known for ages that he's…" She trailed off, uncertain how to allude to that reviled mark on Draco's forearm.
"Still," insisted Ron. "It's weird. Doesn't feel right."
Hermione rolled her eyes. She wanted this conversation to end; it made her jittery, and her body was difficult enough to control as it was.
"See, he's writing in something. What could that be, do you think?"
Hermione momentarily forgot her handicap and twisted around in her seat, wincing at the pain it brought, but was undeterred. Ron was right; Draco was writing in a diary, his breakfast seemingly untouched.
For a moment, she was so overwhelmed by the need to fish hers out of her schoolbag she nearly took it out then and there.
"Maybe he forgot about that History essay, too," teased Harry. Ron swatted him on the shoulder. Harry shoved him back, laughing, but then his expression went very serious.
"Hermione — I promise I won't yell at you" — he eyed her chest nervously — "but I just — I hate to ask this, but I need to know… Is there anything else you haven't told us?"
She thought of the twin diary in her bag, of the kisses, of Christmas night in the prefects' bathroom, of the fearful confessions when he'd been summoned by Voldemort, the Vanishing Cabinet, his failed assignment to assassinate a dead man…
"I — I contacted Rita Skeeter again."
"Wh— Rita? Why?"
"We're meant to use all our resources to figure out what's going on at the Ministry, aren't we? Well, she still owes me."
Harry and Ron both blinked at her. "Hermione," Harry started, "you can't — I mean — really?"
Hermione bristled. "Why can't I? Have you got a better idea?"
"I — no, I mean — you know what? Sure. Why not."
Ron laughed. "You're bloody insane, Hermione."
Hermione huffed, "Well, I'm expecting to hear from her later this week. I'll let you know what she says."
The Great Hall began to properly empty, then, so Hermione stuffed the rest of her crumpet in her mouth and started the arduous process of walking to Charms. She was so slow it nearly made them late, but Harry and Ron stayed with her, and it made her heart warm and her pain lessen just a little.
Once Flitwick had begun the lesson and everyone seemed settled, Hermione discreetly pulled her diary from her bag. The binding was shimmering gold; she imagined Draco sitting anxiously in Herbology, waiting for her. She opened it to the most recently used page and found it covered in slanted writing.
I'm so so so so sorry. Are you okay? Please be okay. I've never seen you in pain like that, not even at the end of fifth year. Please promise me you're okay. And don't lie to make me feel better. I need to know you're really going to be alright…
On and on it went, the penmanship getting messier as he spilled his fears across the page.
I never should have done it. I'm so sorry. You never have to speak to me again if you don't want to. Just tell me you're okay and I'll leave you alone…
Had he written this last night? Her heart ached, though not from the Dark magic.
The next chunk was different, the writing neater.
I see you sitting with Potter and Weasley, so you must be alright. You look like you're in such pain, though. Please promise me you'll go to Madame Pomfrey and take something for it. You don't deserve this. I'm so sorry…
And then all the ink disappeared, leaving the page blank, like it had never been touched in the first place.
But before he could write anything, or apologise again, or promise never to speak to her, she grabbed her quill and wrote, Hello. I'm okay. I promise. Excess ink smudged the first letters.
I'm so glad, he wrote quickly. I'm sorry I was a bit of a mess earlier. I was just worried.
She wanted to tell him it was okay, to somehow express this warm, delicious feeling currently flooding every inch of her, but she didn't get the chance.
I have to go. Sprout's having us repot something awful. I'll see you later. Next to it, he drew a little leaf on a stem.
And then the binding dulled, and she closed the diary feeling disappointed. There wasn't time to dwell on it, though; Flitwick had moved onto a completely different chapter and Hermione had to scramble to catch up before he could catch her off guard with a question she couldn't answer.
It would be nearly a week before she could brew with him again. The thought made her chest throb miserably, and she heard Draco's voice in her head telling her to go to the Hospital Wing after class.
Fine, she told him. For you, I will.
Over the next few days, Hermione wouldn't say that Harry and Ron treated her any differently, but it wasn't quite the same, either. Since she wouldn't be brewing for the rest of the week, there was no need for Draco to come up in conversation, and the avalanche of start-of-term homework kept them distracted enough.
Not to mention they still had a dozen of Dumbledore's memories to go through.
That was how Hermione found herself in not-quite Hogwarts, the corridors swarming with students sporting twenty-year-old fashions. Headmaster Dumbledore stood, surveying them rushing into the courtyard, a mild smile toying with his lips while his eyes looked troubled.
A young boy, perhaps in his third year, bumped against Dumbledore's side and went tumbling to the ground, armful of books and parchment flying everywhere. He looked winded, but he didn't wait to catch his breath before pushing himself onto his knees and scrambled to pile his things together on the ground. "Sorry, headmaster," he said quickly, his voice teetering on the edge of a rich baritone. "Got pushed."
Dumbledore waved his wand and the boy's possessions soared into the air; Hermione caught glimpses of the annotated pages of his textbooks and half-finished essays as they fluttered by. In a heartbeat, they landed in a neat stack in the boy's arms.
"Not to worry, Mr Snape. Best take care you aren't late, however — I do believe Professor McGonagall has a particular distaste for tardiness."
They boy nodded. "Yes, sir." And then he scurried off, head bent over the books he held close against his chest.
Dumbledore watched him go thoughtfully and, just when Hermione thought there might be some sort of explanation, the world around them dissipated and they were ejected back into the present.
"Alright," declared Ron after he'd caught his breath, "that one I really did not get the point of."
"Is he trying to tell us something about Snape, do you think?"
"Severus?" The headmistress looked up from her desk, eyebrow raised, teacup frozen halfway to her lips.
"That memory — it was of him as a student."
Minerva frowned. "The memories which concern him — he's not yet approved for you to see them. That is his right." She eyed the three of them sternly. "What did you see?"
"It wasn't very long," Hermione explained quickly. "It was just Dumbledore's perspective of Professor Snape as a young student, running late to a lesson."
"Hmm." Minerva was still frowning. "I'll let him know, and kindly ask you to inform me should he appear in any of the others."
"Of course."
"Yes, headmistress."
They left shortly after, Hermione feeling puzzled, like some very important clue had smacked her in the face and she hadn't even noticed.