AN: Hello, readers. If you're still following, many thanks! Life has gotten rather busy lately. I also feel like I hit a bit of a wall as we begin the school year. While I don't intend to go scene by scene in the books, I did want to get Hermione's perspective on some of those opening scenes, particularly with Umbridge. Let me know if it's overkill. I was also curious what you guys think about the Hermione vs Snape perspectives. Are they balancing well? Should they primarily be only one? Always welcoming feedback. :)

*Content marked with an asterisk is directly quoted from the books, which are not my own.

Chapter 10: Gloriae Cupidus

"Holy shit," Snape muttered, pronouncing the first word as two long syllables as he watched the girl disappear around the corner. If he was not mistaken, she had just cast a confundus on a human being. In animagus form. Illegally. While bewitched to look like someone who didn't even exist, such that if any memories of the event were examined, no one would know it was her.

Shit.

He followed her steps, just as invisible now as he had been when he followed her to the apothecary. As he'd peered into the window, he'd watched her keep relative calm when faced with Narcissa Malfoy, a variable he hadn't calculated for specifically, though he knew generally she could run into a number of people she knew. He overtook the girl a block away from their meeting point, and he allowed her to find him leaning against the wall, looking half bored and half impatient upon her return.

"Well?" he asked, deadpan.

"I've got it here, sir," she said, patting her robe pocket.

"Any trouble?"

She hesitated, only for a second, then shook her head as she looked not at his eyes but at his left cheek. "No, sir. Where to next?"

St. Mungo's, so I can have them examine my head and explain to me why I feel like laughing. The Ministry, where I can, as the only non-self-incriminating person in the situation, hand over a memory of you casting illegal magic. Dumbledore's office, where I can tell him how you really are perfect for the job. And somehow get him not to award Gryffindor points when term hasn't even started yet.

Instead of saying any of this, he held out his arm. Obediently, she stepped forward and took it. Silently, he spun them away.

In only moments, Snape had undone his charms and Hermione had handed over the parcel. Then she was creeping up the stairs and slipping into her room, which Ginny wasn't present in. She immediately pressed her hand over her mouth, though, when she saw her bed.

A misshapen lump occupied the center of it. She approached the bed with silent steps, watching the shape for any sign of movement. Seeing none, she reached a hand out for the covers, then pulled them back carefully. Her brows rose. A conglomeration of pillows and balled up clothing formed a somewhat lumpy, but fairly humanoid shape.

"I know," a voice behind her said, and she spun around to see Ginny leaning against the doorframe. She wiped an imaginary tear from the corner of her eye, then beamed brilliantly into the middle distance as if an audience surrounded them. "It's some of my best work."

"Is this supposed to be…me?" Hermione laughed, turning back to examine the mess.

"You've been a right state all day, I'll have you know," Ginny said, sweeping into a chair. "Worried sick over Harry's trial, researching into all hours of the night, and then ultimately collapsing from exhaustion." She eyed the pile with a woebegone expression. "Poor thing. Had to play nursemaid all morning."

"And what did that amount to? Pretending to stick me with a jab?"

Ginny, who had taken Muggle Studies last year, letting most people believe she was following in Arthur's footsteps but mostly to exasperate Molly, didn't ask what that meant.

"Oh, no, mum made me bring you porridge."

"And why do you look so pleased about that?"

Ginny grinned. "It meant I got to have two helpings of breakfast. Can you imagine Ron's face if he knew?"

The girls laughed and set to dismantling the shoddy disguise.

"I thought you weren't coming back until late," Ginny said conversationally as she brought a small tower of folded clothes over to the wardrobe.

"Change of plans," Hermione said, shrugging. "Anyway, I didn't want to miss Harry's return. Now I'm back in plenty of time."

"I wouldn't be so sure," Ginny said, eyeing the clock, which read just about one. "Listen…" She sat on her bed and faced Hermione, who had just straightened out the bedclothes. "Dad managed to send mum a note about an hour ago. Harry's trial time got moved up."

Hermione felt her eyebrows rise. "Moved up? But why?"

"That's the question, isn't it?" Ginny said seriously. "You know, I've not been completely blind all Summer. I've read what they're saying in the Prophet."

"And…" Hermione sat, facing the girl. "You think they did it on purpose. To discredit him even more."

Ginny nodded. "So then Harry's not only a naive liar…"

"He's also unreliable and disrespectful," Hermione finished. "Did he make it on time, do you know?"

"Dad said just barely. Lucky thing they were early."

"Lucky thing," Hermione echoed. But internally she wondered. How difficult is the Ministry going to make Harry's life before this war is through?

After a morning spent with her family, seeing Harry upon his return topped Hermione's happiness levels so much she thought she could burst. The tension in her own shoulders eased when she saw him, unburdened and carefree, after the trial. She did not, however, fail to notice that not everyone was celebrating.

"Alright, Sirius?" she asked, stepping up to the counter where he was slicing bread.

"What?" He blinked and looked around at her, but even she was able to see through the flimsy smile he offered her. "Oh, hi, Hermione. Good news, huh?"

He tossed his head back towards the table, and she half turned, watching as the twins jostled Harry as they began the chant for the sixth time that day. She turned back to Sirius.

"Great news," she said, allowing a little extra emphasis on the first word and peering at him with her head titled. "Don't you think so?"

"Yeah, yeah, of course," Sirius said. "Listen, could you take over? There's something I forgot I have to…"

He trailed off, and before she could say anything, he'd slunk away and slipped out the kitchen door. Hermione narrowed her eyes at the door, but took the knife in hand.

"Hey, 'Mione. Feeling better?"

Hermione jumped and turned on Ron. "Don't sneak up on someone who's holding a knife, Ron!" She brandished it, but laughed when Ron took half a step back and raised his hands.

"Right, don't need to tell me twice," he said, but offered her a crooked smile. One of his freckles disappeared into the curve of his cheek as he did so. "But seriously, are you alright? Gin said you were exhausted."

"Oh, that," Hermione said lightly, turning her attention to the bread. She wasn't sure she could successfully lie to Ron while looking him in the eye. "I'm fine. Just a little tired is all." That, at least, was true.

"You know, 'Mione," Ron said, leaning his forearms on the counter. "I think sometimes you work too hard."

The corner of her lip quirked. "Funny enough, you're not the only one to say so."

"I must be right, then," Ron said, jabbing her with his elbow.

"Ron!" Hermione protested, but again with a laugh. "I'm holding a knife over here."

"Oh, stop worrying. Besides, you could heal it in a second."

"Ron, you know we're not to do magic outside of school."

And so do you, she told herself. Except you did use magic outside of school.

It was a move she never could have gotten away with at home. The trace operated largely based upon location. She was counting on the crowds of Diagon and Knockturn Alleys to cover up her charm, and her gamble had paid off. A simultaneous rush of pleasure and flood of shame filled her in the moments afterward, but something had to be done with Skeeter. Hermione certainly wasn't going to release her back on Hogwarts grounds.

She finished slicing into the bread at parallel lines and set the knife down. As she piled the slices on a plate, she pondered. How exactly does the Trace work? If being in a crowd could cover underage magic, what would happen if the underage witch or wizard in question were in a secret kept location?

"Hey, Hermione," Ron said suddenly but quietly. "Do you think…?"

But at that moment, hands seized Hermione's shoulders, and she had just enough time to recognize George before he spun her in a circle to his twin.

"He got off!" Fred crowed, taking her by the hands, spinning her around, and sending her back to George.

George copied the maneuver and dipped her as she completed another orbit.

"He got off!" he yelled.

Ginny joined the fray, and soon they were both laughing as the twins traded them back and forth like they were putting on an absurd juggling act. Through the blur of color and noise, Hermione could see Ron standing against the counter, the tips of his ears pink, but a crooked smile on his face. The twins' glee was infectious.

"Alright, alright!" Mrs. Weasley said, exasperated, and she broke up the group as she bustled through the middle of it to retrieve the bread.

I guess it isn't so infectious, Hermione thought to herself with a smile.

As dinner began, her conversation with Ron lay forgotten.

The only thing good about August, Severus thought, was that the arrival of term would mean fewer middle of the night calls.

He had been up since four slicing, shredding, and juicing potions ingredients when it became clear that the tremors dancing their way through his body at random intervals would not let him get any sleep. The Dark Lord had not been more displeased than usual over the last two weeks. Rather, it was a sign of his relatively even mood that only tremors, rather than body-twisting convulsions, made his body seize.

The Dark Lord, if anything, had seemed to be in a better mood than usual last night, as he only lazily flicked his wand after Severus's lackluster report, but soon dismissed him as he turned his attention elsewhere. Still, the almost every other night schedule was beginning to make Severus feel as if the skin around his eyes was as dry and withered as raisins. He was thankful that, as usual, he had saved the most boring—and therefore least volatile—ingredients to prepare for the end of Summer.

Severus scooped out the final beetle eye and, with a twitch of his fingers, wordlessly and wandlessly sealed the jar of glittering black orbs. He flexed his hands, stretching ut the muscles in his fingers that had been performing repetitive minions all morning. A twinge, akin to a stretched rubber band being plucked at one end so that the vibration traveled down the length of the rubber, shot up his arm to the crook of his elbow and his arm clenched painfully Severus let out a muffled groan through firmly pressed lips. He immediately set his palms to the workbench, then rotated his hands backwards until his wrists were forward, then he leaned back, stretching out his forearms. The cramp throbbed insistently, but in a few moments dissipated into a dull ache. Satisfied for the time being, Severus grabbed a washrag.

Several minutes later, he ascended the basement stairs. He dropped the washrag and had his wand pulled from his sleeve before he fully registered who was sitting on his couch.

"What are you doing here?"

"Good morning to you, too, Severus. Tea?"

Without waiting for a response, Minerva raised a teapot–which must have been transfigured from something; he hadn't seen a teapot in this hellhole of a house since he was five and his father was shattering it in one of his drunken rages–and filled a small cup painted with delicate florals. Minerva sat back again into his sofa. That, too, must have been transfigured, because he knew–from the experience of many post-Summons collapses–that his sofa was far too lumpy for her to be sitting up so straight.

Or maybe that's just Minerva, he thought. Indomitable, even by old Muggle furniture. He shook his head.

"Again, what are you doing here?" he asked.

"Sit down and eat your biscuits," Minerva said, and there was some bite to her voice now.

Severus raised a brow but crossed into the sitting room and seated himself in his favored leather chair. The older woman looked at him pointedly. He humored her with an exaggerated sigh and took a sip of the tea, ignoring the dish of ginger newts entirely. Only once he had drunk half of the tea did she speak.

"You're not eating enough."

"Bothersome old woman," he muttered.

"And your hand is shaking," she said.

He scowled, saying nothing. The critical sharpness in her face softened somewhat.

"You're being Summoned."

"Not at present, no," Severus said lightly, as if they were discussing the weather.

"You know what I mean," Minerva snapped, then took a drink of her own tea with an air of impatience. When she set her cup in her saucer she asked, "How often?"

Severus shrugged. "It varies," he said. "Sometimes once a week. Sometimes more."

"How much more?" she pressed.

"Every other night. Give or take."

"Every other–" Minerva sat back, cup clutched tightly between her fingers. Her mouth had fallen open slightly and there was a sheen to her eyes. "My boy…"

Snape bristled. "What did you think was going to happen when Albus had me return to him last June? Did you think we'd be sitting around having tea parties?" He brandished his cup and narrowly avoided sloshing tea over its rim. "There's no use being upset about it. I knew what I was getting into."

He drained the rest of his tea and set both cup and saucer on the table before sitting back in his seat. He resisted the strong temptation to slouch and cross his arms. Minerva always had a way of making him feel like he was a fourth year again getting caught after an altercation with the Marauders. He always had known what he was getting into with them also. That had not, however, made Minerva's mouth less of an exasperated pursing of the lips when she had sat him down in her office. She was giving him a not dissimilar look now, only her eyebrows were drawn close together as they tended to be when she was thinking intently.

"Is there not–" she began.

"There is no other way," Severus said shortly.

Minerva blinked at him, then looked at the cup in her lap.

"Be that as it may," she replied quietly. "I do wish you didn't have to do it alone."

It was a good thing she was looking away, because Severus was too sleep deprived, too sore, and too addled by her surprise visit to keep alarm off of his face. He schooled his features in a moment, but felt a swelling in his chest, as though the words were bouncing around in his lungs, waiting only for enough air to propel them outwards.

I'm not alone, the words said, jostling around in his ribcage. I'm working with someone. Sort of.

But after a moment, the words settled like birds with clipped wings and Minerva moved on.

"I came to collect your vote for this year's prefects," she said. She pulled a folded piece of parchment from her robe pocket and began smoothing it out on the table. "I saw Pomona last evening and Filius owled his votes in the day before."

Severus sniffed. "And here I was thinking you just wanted to visit me."

"Oh hush," she said absently as she pulled a quill into existence between her fingers. "You wanted to kick me out the moment you saw me. Now, what may be simplest is to present the list as is and you can advise on any changes you would make."

She turned the parchment around and offered him the quill–self-inking, he noted as he took it. His eyes had been on the parchment for barely two seconds before he opened his mouth.

"Weasley?" he sneered. He looked up at her. "You cannot be serious."

"Severus–"

"Weasley is always getting into trouble with Potter. I myself have taken points from him for insolence, damage to school property, talking out of turn–"

"I'm not quite sure that pointing out biases in your teaching meth–"

"Using magic in the hallways," Snape continued, voice raised. "Brawling with other students–"

"If you're talking about your Slytherins, then I doubt Mr. Weasley alone is at fau–"

"Chewing with his mouth open!"

"An unpardonable offense, I agree," Minerva said dryly.

"Minerva."

"Severus," she mimicked, but grew serious again. "Be reasonable and think for a moment. Who else could the position have gone to? I don't know about your experience, but Mr. Finnegan regularly blows up a number of items in Filius' class, I am told. Can you imagine him helping the first years? And Longbottom would probably have a heart attack by October if he were taking on Prefect duties and OWLs, poor boy…"

Yes, yes, poor Longbottom, Severus thought without pity.

"What about Thomas?"

"Unclear family ties," McGonnagal said tersely, her Scottish accent thickening with sarcasm.

Severus rolled his eyes. "Dumbledore's not still on about that theory, is he? I've told him a hundred times. I would have known whether—"

"Yes, yes, I know."

"Doesn't give a damn about families in the other Houses," he muttered. "But Merlin forbid Gryffindor House be tainted by dark wizard representatives."

"Severus, you know Lucius Malfoy would have our heads if his own son wasn't—" She pursed her lips and clenched her hands in her lap. The gesture reminded him of another Gryffindor witch. " Regardless. I believe he thinks having it go to Mr. Weasley will be for the best."

For the greater good. The unspoken words hung in the air between them.

He snorted. "I'm surprised Albus hasn't overruled and sent Potter the badge himself."

Minerva paused as the teapot refilled her cup, then took a prim sip and said, "He was the one to suggest Mr. Weasley, actually."

Even as her eyes flashed up at him over the rim, Severus felt alarm tense and narrow his focus even through the mental fog and residual muscle pain.

Abus, pass up an opportunity to shower Potter with attention? What is he playing at?

"Perhaps he finally listened to you," she offered. "Potter does get up to a lot of trouble."

If only I could be so lucky, he wanted to say. No, there was something else going on, some other strategy Dumbledore was employing.

"Has he said anything about the Dark Arts position?" Severus asked suddenly, and he was embarrassed to feel a flutter of stomach-twisting hope, though he felt sure he knew the answer already.

Minerva's lips thinned and she set down her cup.

"You aren't going to like this."

Darling, we're so pleased. Is there any way you could send us a copy of the letter? We'd love to post it to the fridge. That's your father's idea.

"I'm not five, dad," she said under her breath.

From here, her father's messier scrawl took over.

It's not just little kids who get their work put up on the fridge. Remember that time we had an article written up for the prs rice in the paper? You insisted we put it up!

"Yeah, dad. When I was five." Still, she smiled.

Your father and I have been talking about Christmas, her mother's hand continued. It isn't too early to plan! Aunt Rebecca said she may bump up her trip to Vienna early. It's supposed to be beautiful that time of year. Or would you rather have a quiet Christmas at home? Write back soon, darling, and have a lovely start of term.

Hermione penned her reply to their rushed letter, including reminders that she wasn't to do magic outside of school—she'd yet to attempt any charms until she could research the Fidelius and the Trace more, worried that the latter might supersede the former—but would send a copy from school, brief notes about how her friends were doing, and her excitement about returning to school.

My potions work is also going well, she added at the end, which seemed honest enough after the visit to the apothecary. She studiously made no mention of Harry's trial, the existence of the Order, or Mrs. Weasley's encounter with the boggart, which she had overheard Lupin and Moody discussing as she'd made her way down the stairs earlier that evening.

Hermione suppressed a shiver as she signed off, then glanced up around the basement lab. She had come here to write, rather than keep Ginny up late. The room was, naturally, immaculate. Clearly labeled ingredients glimmered in the low light from their shelves. Gleaming cauldrons lined the counter, ready and waiting for the next concoction to be made. Her fingers twitched with the urge to pluck down ingredients and grind them with a mortar and pestle. She eyed the clock: it was just past midnight.

Too late to send Hedwig out again, she decided. She'd have to wait and use one of the school owls. She gnawed on her lower lip. Maybe it was best not to use Hedwig anyway. She wasn't sure anyone else had noticed, but Harry's sour mood had not seemed to improve regarding the prefect badges over the course of the day. Her cheeks colored, remembering her poor lie to Ron when she'd discovered he, not Harry, had been made prefect.

She sighed and reread her letter, but the words blurred as she scanned the lines for any detail out of place, any hint at the return of dark lords or government biases against her best friend. A sense of foreboding swirled in her stomach. No, she decided. It's better that they don't know.

Nodding to herself in reassurance, she began folding the letter into a small self-contained envelope, then stuck it between the pages of her Defense book. As she did so, she frowned, taking in the title of chapter three: The Case for Non-Offensive Responses to Magical Attack.

She'd skimmed the textbook already, but had been going over it in more detail throughout the day. What sort of teacher of defense, she wondered, would have assigned such a book? She doubted any of the others had begun their reading, and dimly she wondered what Harry would make of it.

"Don't fight back," she imagined a faceless teacher saying as he peered down at Harry in class. "Even if a dementor attacks you and your cousin in the middle of Surrey."

The teacher, she noted curiously, had Professor Quirrel's turban.

There was a loud click and Hermione jumped, looking up at the door. Half illumined by the low light of the room and half in shadow from the hall, Professor Snape stood in the doorway.

"Granger." His voice sliced into the quiet darkness like a knife. "What are you doing up?"

"Good evening, sir," she said, standing. "I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"Morning, more like," he said, eyes flashing to the clock. They jumped back to her face and narrowed. "What are you doing here?"

Each word was punctuated by a brief pause. The fine hairs on the back of Hermione's neck prickled. She felt very much as if she were under the attention of a prowling panther.

"I…couldn't sleep," she said. It sounded foolish when she heard it out loud. "I didn't want to bother anyone, so I…"

She trailed off as she watched him limp into the room, her eyes immediately drawn down to his leg. Her eyes shot up again as he paused at the edge of the table. She felt as if his stare could bore holes into her, so much so that she reached up and touched her cheek. It was burning with heat, but her fingertips were ice cold.

"Yet here you are," he rumbled quietly.

Her cheek burned hotter and she dropped her hand.

"I'll just be going then," she said, lowering her eyes.

"Stay."

The word cracked like a whip and Hermione recoiled. She stared at him, eyes wide, feeling a tension in the air that wasn't there before he arrived.

She knew that Snape was a harsh man with cruel opinions and a wickedly sharp tongue. She and her friends had been on the receiving end of the ugliest threats she had ever heard. At times over the last several weeks, she had seen some respite from his caustic words. Rarely, however, had she felt the danger of the man. The only time she had glimpsed it was when his wild eyes were on Sirius Black in the Shrieking Shack. Now, there was something sinister and almost viscous that seemed to pour out of him as he glared at her across the table.

"Sir?" she breathed.

"Stay," he repeated in a hard voice, and sat on the stool opposite with a grimace.

She blinked at him, heart thudding in her throat and feeling very much like a gazelle that had had the misfortune of running into a pack of lions. Hermione took a shuddering breath and let it out slowly through her nose before she sat down carefully. Once she had done so, he brought his fingertips to his temples and closed his eyes as he pressed firm circles into the hollows. The sleeves of his robes fell down, pooling around his elbows planted on the table, revealing forearms covered in long white pressed shirtsleeves. The left cuff fell slightly, revealing just how bony his wrist was.

"Talk to me," he demanded, and her shoulders jerked.

"A-About what?"

"Anything," he said, reversing the direction of the circles. "Just…what were you writing?"

"How—?"

"Ink on your fingers and the folded parchment sticking clearly out of your book," Snape said dully. "I don't even need to be a spy to notice such things," he muttered, still loud enough for her to hear. On purpose, she thought.

"A letter to my parents," she said, feeling her heart rate slow as she eyed the envelope's crisp edges. "I…" She felt her eyes burn with tears and kept her gaze lowered. "Am I a terrible person?"

There was a long pause, in which Hermione did not know whether Snape was evaluating her. She feared if she looked up that he would look amused or annoyed, and she didn't know which would be worse.

"Why?" His tone was measured, unemotional.

"I'm lying to them. I'm lying to everyone," she whispered, and then she shuddered. "I feel like every other sentence I write to my parents omits the truth. I can't tell Harry or Ron or Ginny anything."

She had to look at him. She had to know his reaction. Slowly, she raised her wet eyes from her picked cuticles. It was like looking at a corpse. Lank hair framed his face. His eyes gleamed silver in the low light. He was backlit now. Shadows obscured the details of his face, but she saw a glimmer when he opened his mouth. When he spoke, it was in a croak.

"Welcome to being a spy."

Hermione only stared at him, stomach churning.

"Speaking of," Snape said with a casualness that immediately made her insides twist. "You've yet to hold up your end of the deal."

Hermione licked her dry lips. "What do you mean?"

All casualness slid off him like oil separating from water as he fixed her with a pointed look.

"Our reckless boy wonder," he said. "Or did you forget that you agreed to an exchange of information?"

Hermione paled. She had, indeed, done such a thing. Or maybe shoved it far back in her mind, hoping he wouldn't ask any time soon.

Snape was still speaking. "I have multiple times now engaged you in work for the Order."

"The ingredients…" Hermione listed, then waited for more.

"And the blood replenishers."

Her brow furrowed. "I thought that those were a test."

Snape leaned forward until he was halfway across the table, his face large but still half shadowed in her vision. When he spoke, she felt the vibration of his voice run across the table and up her fingers.

"Why couldn't it be both?"

Hermione bristled. "You used my parents as leverage?"

"Miss Granger, if you're going to be manipulating people, you are going to have to learn the varieties and usefulness of leverage."

"But I'm not—"

"You are making observations, providing information, and—by your own admission—lying to everyone." Sarcasm enveloped the last three words, as if he were mocking the guilty admission she'd poured out to him. "How do you imagine manipulation does not factor into what you do?"

Hermione opened her mouth, but promptly shut it. Her heart fluttered in her chest like a bird frantic to escape its cage. That wasn't at all what she had agreed to. Was it?

Snape leaned forward even more, taking up a maximum amount of her field of vision.

"During this Summer, you have joined the safe house early, had me fabricate an excuse for said early departure, have had safety measures taken for your parents at considerable cost of time and effort. You have been trained by a Potions Master and been put in contact with the most dependable apothecary in Britain, which, may I remind you, also involved further fabrication of an identity and apprenticeship."

Somehow he had managed to rattle off his list in a single breath. He leaned closer, lowering his voice so much that Hermione had to focus to hear him over her increasingly thudding heartbeat.

"You owe a debt."

At those words, a shudder ran up her spine.

"Are you going back on your word, Miss Granger?"

"No, sir," Hermione managed to squeak, then cleared her throat. "What exactly do you want to know?"

Something like satisfaction gleamed in his eyes.

"Anything worth knowing," he said, tone business-like as he shrank back into the shadows on his side of the table. "Especially anything that is concerning."

Swallowing down what felt like a great urge to be sick all over the lab table, Hermione took a steadying breath.

I said yes to this, she told herself. I'm not tattling on Harry. I'm keeping him safe.

And so she rounded up all the courage it had taken to alert Professor McGonagall of Harry's new Firebolt in third year and began.

"Harry's been upset since he arrived," she said, and then she couldn't stop herself. "He was really angry, actually. He yelled at me and Ron the first night, thought we were keeping secrets about the Order from him. It's not like we knew much of anything ourselves, he just—"

At Snape's raised brow, she stopped her defensive ramble. "Right, so… He's calmed down a bit since then. Obviously the trial was a big weight on his shoulders. And he's not looking forward to leaving Sirius. He…"

It didn't seem relevant, but Snape had said 'anything.'

"He was rather upset about not making prefect. I don't think anyone else noticed, but I saw it when Ron was distracted by Mrs. Weasley. He thought he was going to get it. I thought he was going to get it." Hermione peered up at her professor. "Why—"

"You have made adequate observations," Snape interrupted, standing and limping to a cauldron. He settled it on the counter between them. "You are dismissed."

"Are you brewing? I can help," she offered immediately, getting to her feet.

Snape gripped the table with his fingers as he looked over her.

"Must I repeat myself? Perhaps I should write the instructions in a textbook and then you will pay attention." He flicked his glance down at her book, then fixed flinty eyes on her. "Go. To. Bed."

"Yes, sir," Hermione said in a small voice, and she just had the wits about her to grab her book before she dashed from the room.

When Hermione woke up in the morning, her head was throbbing with a headache. As the events of the previous evening replayed themselves in her head, her face burned. She had finally followed through on her agreement with Snape. While the things she had revealed could easily have been seen or guessed at by anyone in the Order, it still did not make her feel any less sick or guilty as she'd ascended the stairs. With no desire to wake the slumbering Ginny, she had pressed her hands to her mouth to cut off a dry sob and curled up into a ball on her bed. She couldn't be sure, but she thought she must not have fallen asleep before two.

Her dreams had been riddled with images she couldn't explain. She was in the middle of a battlefield with spells in violent red, poison green, and electric blue flying over her head. She'd dropped to the ground to dodge a curse and landed in mud. Sputtering, she'd pushed herself up on her elbows and crawled until she could take shelter behind a mound of earth. Except, when the clouds moved and permitted moonlight to stream over the fighting figures, it wasn't a mound of earth she huddled behind. It was a pile of bodies. Their eyes gleamed silver in the moonlight.

She ducked into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face until the puffiness underneath her eyes felt numb and her mind cleared of the heavy fog weighing it down. She examined her reflection, taking slow breaths until her slightly dilated pupils constricted.

When she returned to her room, Ginny was up, shoving her pajamas into her trunk with one hand and pulling down the hem of her shirt with the other. A piece of toast dangled between her teeth.

"Hey, Hermione," she said after she swallowed a bite. She jerked her head at a short stack of toast on her bedside table. "Help yourself. Mum dropped it off. I'm going to take this down."

She whirled out of the room with her trunk and Hermione's eyes slid to her own bedside table. It was empty. She felt a sharp sting somewhere beneath her ribs, not terribly unlike the one she'd experienced last Easter, but took a piece of Ginny's toast, swallowing the dry crumbs with a throat that suddenly felt thick as she stowed her toiletries bag in her trunk and coaxed Crookshanks into his cage with the crusts.

A clattering sound made her jump and she sprang into the hallway, wand drawn from her pocket. Twin blurs of red went streaking past her and down the stairs.

"Ginny!"

"You okay, Gin?"

Hermione all but flew down the stairs to find the twins picking Ginny up off the floor and setting her on the stairs. What followed was a cacophony of noise: Mrs. Black screaming at the top of her painted lungs, Mrs. Weasley matching her pitch for pitch, and Fred and George apologizing over and over for knocking Ginny down the stairs with their zooming trunks.

"Alright?" Hermione asked, heart in her throat, as she examined Ginny.

"'Course," Ginny said bracingly, her chin in her hand and her elbow perched on her knee. "I've had worse."

Hermione's brows raised. "Ginny, you fell down two flights of stairs."

Ginny blinked at her. "Hermione, if tumbles down stairs caused that much damage, kids wouldn't live past their first bursts of accidental magic!"

Hermione's brows drew together.

"What…?"

Ginny's mouth dropped open. "Oh, I forgot, you wouldn't know." She gave her a patient smile. "Witches and wizards aren't as easily hurt as Muggles by things like falls. I mean, sure, you could get really hurt from falling off your broom or something, but–"

They winced as Molly started yelling at the twins about serious injury. Hermione jerked her head at Mrs. Weasley. Ginny scoffed.

"Mum's always making a fuss over me, being the only girl." She rolled her eyes. Seeing Hermione's sceptical look, she reached out and squeezed her arm. "I'm fine, Hermione. Really. You'd better go grab your things, though. I think we're running late."

Hermione checked her watch, blanched, then ran back upstairs. She brought her trunk down next to Ginny's. Ginny gave Hermione a look over her mother's shoulder as Molly leaned over her daughter, wand in hand as she scanned Ginny's elbow. Hermione gave her a weak smile, then dashed back upstairs.

"Mum and Dad just sent Hedwig back," Hermione lied, avoiding Harry's eyes as Hedwig fluttered to her owner. She looked around the room. "Are you ready yet?"

Her lie was unnoticed in the chaos of Ginny's injury and Harry's scramble to get downstairs.

Rule number three: Lie when people are distracted and they won't notice a thing.

When Hermione stepped foot into the Great Hall, she stopped in her tracks. Heavy black banners hung from the ceiling. Several thousands of candles stood at the edges and corners of the room. Cho Chang sat at the Ravenclaw table, tears streaming in silvery rivulets down her face.

Something hard hit her left elbow and she turned to see Michael Corner, Terry Boot, a girl Hermione thought might be named Marianne, and Cho jostle past her.

No, wait…

Hermione blinked rapidly and the Great Hall came back into focus looking as it had always looked on the first night back: friends standing in knots finishing conversations before they dispersed to their own tables, second-years casting hesitantly proud glances around the room with the assurance that they were no longer the youngest, and Fred and George Weasley already looking like they were up to no good.

I'm going crazy, Hermione told herself as she walked to the Gryffindor table. I'm seeing things that aren't really there, too.

Heat suffused her face as she remembered the carriage ride up to school. Loony Lovegood and Gaga Granger, she thought, then she scolded herself. Get a grip!

"What's that, Hermione?" Parvati asked.

Did I say that out loud? Hermione winced, then offered Parvati a cheery smile that, even to herself, felt strained. "What a trip," she said brightly. "Up to the castle."

"Right…" Parvati's brow wrinkled at her and she offered an unsure smile before turning back to Lavender.

Hermione let out a sigh, then turned her attention to the head table as Harry pointed out Hagrid's absence. She contributed to the conversation, and then her eyes fell upon Snape. Shame flooded her veins. She just managed not to pull her eyes away immediately. Snape usually would notice the moment someone had laid eyes on him. She didn't think she had ever managed to be looking at him for more than a few seconds before his eyes scanned the area–whether it be the Great Hall, the Potions classroom, or even the hallway–and landed piercingly and almost immediately on her. But now, something had drawn his attention far too strongly. She followed his gaze across the staff table and then gasped.

"Who's that?"

As Harry explained who Umbridge was, Hermione's brain whirred, and her eyes went back to Snape. He looked absolutely revolted, yet something played itself about on his face in a way she had only seen when he had looked upon Lupin. When he saw him on the first night in third year!

The triumphant excitement of guessing, she believed, correctly, quickly curdled in her stomach.

"No…"

But yes, after the sorting and Ron's rude table manners, it was confirmed: Umbridge was the new Defense teacher. It was clear to Hermione that, within only a few sentences, Umbridge had never spent time around teenagers before.

"I am very much looking forward to getting to know you all, and I'm sure we'll be very good friends!"*

Hermione's eyes narrowed and shifted between Umbridge–who remained smiling in her horrid pink cardigan–and Dumbledore, who looked as if he was hanging onto her every word. What is Dumbledore playing at?

Over the course of the next twelve hours, Hermione's mood did not improve. After a sycophantic speech by Umbridge about the Ministry's plans for Hogwarts, Lavender's gossip as they changed into pajamas, and Ron being an absolute imbecile to everyone from ghosts to first years to Cho Chang, she walked into the Potions classroom with a huff. She hadn't slept well last night either, having tossed and turned as her mind refused to shut down, prodding her with questions about Dumbledore, Fudge, Hagrid, and finally Harry. She'd had to fight to keep her voice even this morning as Harry accused her of talking about him behind his back.

Snape shut the door and her mind sprang back to the present. She resisted the urge to take notes, resisted the urge even to look at him until he announced that the potion they would start with was the Draught of Peace. Her eyes shot up and, just for a moment, caught his. A potion to calm anxiety and soothe agitation. It sounded exactly like what she needed.

Though, she ruminated, Snape was hardly likely to allow her to have any. She'd have to resort to chamomile tea. Or running.

"I get two miles in before six and feel right as rain!" her dad had written to her in the middle of third year when he detected her stress. She shuddered and refocused.

The potion itself was complicated, but in a way Hermione found delightful. As she brewed, her worries went to the back of her head, and she breathed steadily to the count of clockwise and counterclockwise stirs. She didn't notice that Snape had approached to check her progress until his cloak fluttered at the corner of her vision. The warm of his tall frame hovered for a moment beside her, and then he moved on. Hermione allowed herself a small smile, but moments later she bit her lip as Snape critiqued Harry's potion.

She tried to soothe Harry's feelings at lunch, but when Ron questioned Snape's loyalty, something in her snapped.

She shouldn't have said it. She should not have said it. And yet, even after Harry stormed away from the table, she couldn't even explain to herself why she had felt so defensive.