A/N: I am so sorry for my long hiatus. I have not abandoned this story. Please consider leaving a review if you wish.
Hermione blinked herself awake, disoriented by the sharp knock on the door. The groggy remnants of sleep faded quickly at the sound of Professor Snape's voice, dripping with sarcasm and irritation.
"Let's go, sleeping beauty. You're going to be late," he barked from the other side.
As she pulled herself out of bed, she couldn't help but feel a strange sense of whiplash. Hours ago, he'd been… different, a tender presence beside her. Now, he was back to the demanding professor, all brisk commands and impatient glares. The shift left her feeling unsteady, as though she were navigating two versions of the same man, one caring and one cold.
"I didn't hear you move yet!" His voice was louder this time, frustration clear. "Don't make me come in there and force you to get up. You have twenty minutes to meet me in the living room."
Throwing off the covers, Hermione scrambled to get ready, a rush of nerves swirling within her. She glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes was hardly enough time, but she knew better than to test his patience. The strange balance between her heart's yearning and the looming expectations of her position left her breathless as she hurriedly dressed, mind racing as much as her heartbeat.
When Hermione finally stepped into the living room, she froze at the sight of Professor Snape pacing impatiently in front of the hearth, his black robes billowing slightly with each sharp turn. His movements were taut, each step as precise as it was furious, and she could feel the intensity radiating from him like heat. She winced, heart sinking as she realized he was genuinely displeased.
"Finally decided to join us, I see," he said, voice low and cutting. His gaze raked over her with a critical eye, lingering on her disheveled appearance. Hermione fought the urge to smooth down her wild curls, still unruly from a fitful sleep. It wasn't her fault that no amount of combing or charm work seemed to make a difference this morning.
"I— I'm sorry, Professor," she stammered, glancing down, her cheeks flushed. "I just… my hair wouldn't cooperate, and I—"
"Excuses," he snapped, cutting her off with a wave of his hand. "It seems you forget that I expect punctuality and professionalism, not… vanity." His tone softened slightly, though the hint of sarcasm still pricked. "Or is this another distraction that I should be aware of?"
The comment stung, and Hermione bit her lip to keep from retorting, feeling her frustration rise. He knew how hard she was trying to maintain her focus despite her inner turmoil, yet here he was, calling her out on what felt like every minor flaw. And despite his cold front, there was a glimmer in his eye, a small hint of something unspoken. It was as if he was waiting, testing her resolve.
With a steadying breath, she forced herself to stand straighter, schooling her expression into one of calm. "It won't happen again, Professor," she said softly, swallowing her emotions.
Later that day, Hermione fought to contain a scream of frustration as she stood at her desk, fingers gripping the edge so tightly her knuckles turned white. He was absolutely infuriating. Every single mistake, every slight miscalculation—no matter how small—was dissected and critiqued with relentless precision. It was as though he couldn't wait for her to fail, as if he were poised to pounce on each error to remind her that, despite her efforts, she still had so much to learn.
She could feel the weight of his scrutiny like a dark cloud hovering over her shoulder, shadowing her every move. Any hope that he might recognize her dedication, acknowledge her progress, seemed to diminish with each biting remark. She had poured herself into this apprenticeship, dedicating hours upon hours to perfect her technique, to memorize his exacting standards, and still, he acted as though she were barely competent.
Why did I even want this? she thought, biting down hard on her lip. Why did I fight so hard to learn from someone who's determined to make every step feel impossible?
"Why didn't you correct Mr. Thompson?" Snape demanded for what felt like the hundredth time since the second years had filed out. His tone was clipped, cold, and cutting. "You knew he was using the wrong ingredient—unless my teaching methods have failed to make an impression on you?"
Hermione's patience snapped. "Will you give it a rest?" she retorted, her tone laced with irritation, knowing full well it wouldn't cool his anger in the slightest. "I can't catch every little infraction in real time!"
"Then maybe you shouldn't be teaching potions!" he thundered, his voice echoing off the stone walls. The words, laced with venom, struck her like a physical blow. He knew they would sting, but his anger had taken hold, and he let them fly unrestrained. "You're forgetting that any mistake could lead to disaster—endangering other students, even us! You're fortunate it only turned his potion green."
Hermione flinched, her face paling at his words. She had done her best to remain vigilant, but she couldn't deny that it hadn't been enough this time. Guilt crept into her mind, but pride kept her from backing down. "I'm doing the best I can," she replied, her voice lower but no less firm, locking eyes with him. "But I'm also still learning, just like they are. A second-year student making a non-fatal mistake doesn't mean I'm incapable of teaching."
Snape's jaw tightened, his dark eyes blazing as he held her gaze. "'Non-fatal' should never be our standard," he hissed. "In this classroom, the smallest misstep can spiral into chaos. I need to know you're vigilant, capable, and—"
"—and perfect, I assume?" she interjected, anger flashing in her eyes. "Because nothing less than that will satisfy you, will it?"
For a moment, Snape's face was unreadable, a mixture of frustration and something else simmering behind his steely expression. He softened only slightly, eyes narrowing as he took a step closer, lowering his voice.
"I expect competence. Focus," he replied, almost softly, but the harshness was still there, a warning hidden in his tone. "And I expect you to care enough to make sure that's what your students receive."
Hermione's hands clenched into fists as she watched Snape stride away, his harsh words still cutting through her. The anger, frustration, and humiliation that had built up over the past weeks broke through her restraint, and before she could stop herself, the words burst out.
"I quit!" she shouted, her voice sharp and filled with a resolve she hadn't known she had. Snape froze mid-step, his back stiffening as her words echoed through the classroom.
Hermione's breathing was rapid as she continued, her voice trembling with the weight of everything she'd held in. "I have jumped through every ridiculous hoop you've thrown in front of me. I've studied endlessly for this position, pushed myself harder than I thought possible—and it's never enough, is it?" Her eyes blazed with a mix of anger and sorrow, and her chest heaved with every word.
Snape turned, his expression a mixture of shock and an unreadable darkness. His silence only fueled her fury.
"I don't want this anymore," she continued, her voice cracking slightly, though she didn't care. "You're never satisfied, no matter how much effort I put in, and I am exhausted from trying to meet your impossible standards." Her gaze hardened as she uttered the words she knew would cut him deeply. "Are you happy now? Finally free of your incompetent apprentice?"
The silence was thick as her last words hung in the air, daring him to respond.
Snape's jaw clenched, his expression like a storm barely held in check. "Hermione—"
"Save it," she interrupted, her voice laced with bitterness. "Enjoy the rest of your life being the miserable bastard you always are. Because I'm done." She turned sharply on her heel, each step echoing her fury as she stormed toward the door, leaving Snape standing alone in the silence she left behind, his face a portrait of shock and hurt he could no longer conceal.
Hermione's hands trembled as she shoved her belongings into her bag, barely able to think through the storm of emotions surging within her. Books, clothes, notes—all hastily stuffed in, without the usual care she took with her things. She was desperate to leave, to escape the weight that had been crushing her with every passing day in the castle, and to put as much distance as possible between herself and him.
She was a fool, she realized with a harsh pang. A fool to have believed that taking the apprenticeship with Snape had been anything but a recipe for heartache. And even more foolish to have thought that maybe, just maybe, he had loved her as fiercely as she had loved him.
Her eyes stung, but she held back the tears as she tossed her packed bag over her shoulder. There was no time to wallow—not here. Without so much as a farewell, she made her way to the fireplace in the living room, determined not to look back.
Grabbing a handful of Floo powder, her hand quivered, but her voice held a steeliness that belied her pain as she whispered, "Grimmauld Place." The familiar green flames enveloped her, whisking her away from the place that had become a prison.
The moment she stumbled into the quiet shadows of Grimmauld Place, the last shred of her resolve crumbled. Her bag fell to the floor with a dull thud as she collapsed to her knees, the cool, hard floor grounding her as she broke down. The sobs she had fought so hard to suppress came rushing to the surface, shaking her body with a grief that felt endless. She buried her face in her hands, each tear carrying the weight of her broken heart and shattered hopes.
As Hermione's sobs subsided, she heard the soft pop of Apparition beside her. She glanced up, surprised to see Luffy, one of Ron's loyal house-elves, looking up at her with wide, concerned eyes. His small, bat-like ears twitched, and he tilted his head sympathetically, holding his hands in front of him as he asked in his gentle, squeaky voice, "Would Miss Hermione want Luffy to help you with your bag?"
For a moment, Hermione couldn't find her voice. Luffy's simple kindness was an unexpected balm to the ache she felt, and the little elf's quiet sincerity made her chest tighten painfully. She hadn't realized how much she needed even the smallest bit of warmth after the cold, cutting words she'd just endured.
With a shaky breath, she managed a grateful nod. "Yes, thank you, Luffy," she whispered, her voice still raw from crying.
Luffy moved with quiet efficiency, lifting her oversized bag with ease, his small hands handling it as carefully as though it were a treasure. He gently set it on a nearby table, then turned back to her, his large eyes filled with a kind of understanding that, for some reason, brought another fresh wave of tears to her eyes. He didn't ask questions or push her to explain; he simply waited, his expression soft and patient, as though ready to help her in any way she might need.
Hermione shook her head, struggling to keep herself together. "Just… thank you, Luffy," she managed, trying to give him a reassuring smile, though it wavered.
He nodded solemnly, giving her a comforting pat on the knee before retreating with a final, polite bow. Watching him disappear, Hermione felt the tiniest spark of comfort from his small gesture of care.