AN: You'll note I've made slight changes from the original text, mainly in the form of Hermione knowing about the RoR a few days early. I'll admit this was entirely so that she could have the conversation in the previous chapter with an exasperated Snape, and I'm not sorry. :) Any lines which look a little too familiar likely come directly from the text, which I do not own and which I often mark with a *. Thank you all for reading and reviewing.
Chapter 14: Vulnera Sanentur
"Celo."
She whispered the word as quietly as she possibly could and sank into a crouch even as she pivoted on her feet to turn back to the clearing. Her eyes didn't have to search long, as they settled almost immediately on a dark figure emerging into the clearing. She fought to control her uneven breathing. Her heart pounded loudly in her ears, not sensible yet to the fact that it was neither a werewolf nor dementor nor dragon nor any other beast she had encountered in the forest before, as she had feared, but Mr. Filch shuffling into the clearing.
But what is he doing here? she wondered, staying low and backing up slowly in time to his own footsteps until she clung to the trunk of a tree, half in shadow.
Snape's spell to hide them from Umbridge had been the first one to pop into her mind, and she was grateful for it, even though she did not know how well it could conceal her in the early morning light compared to a shadowy alcove. Best not to take any chances.
"Sneaking, filthy, meddlesome…" Filch was muttering as he paced a radius of the clearing.
Hermione noted that, despite the fact that the clouds above had not yet broken, the hem of Filch's robes were soaked several inches. While the Weasley twins were the most notable pranksters int he school, they weren't the only ones. She should have realized that their focus on their sweets business would leave open an opportunity for other students to make a name for themselves. At least, that is what she thought she should surmise fromFilch's foul attitude so early in the morning.
She watched him pace for a few more minutes, realized he must be waiting for someone, and was just about to attempt to sink further back into the treeline when a distinct clearing of a throat made her blood stop cold.
Dolores Umbridge, attired in pink raincoat and matching rainboots stepped out into the clearing from the same spot Filch had entered.
"Ah, Argus, there you are," she said.
"Madam Umbridge," Filch said, immediately ceasing his pacing and bowing in the small woman's direction. He coaxed a bit of silkiness into his voice, almost as if he had been trying to impersonate Professor Snape, but it only gave his usual rough grumble a slightly oily feel.
"I received your note," Umbridge said, plucking a piece of parchment from her pocket. "In future, Mr. Filch, I should be more…circumspect…in your words. Should your note fall into the wrong hands."
"Of course, Madam," he said, cutting a short bow again.
Hermione swallowed the feeling of bile and panic in the back of her throat. Were they…working together?
"Now," Umbridge said, dusting off her gloved hands and clasping them in front of her. "Explain to me what news you have."
"Yes, ma'am. Well, there was a right commotion yesterday morning at breakfast. Students were all ina twist over educational decree twenty-three–"
"Twenty-four," Umbridge corrected automatically. "But of course, I had the Gobstones Club up at my office directly following breakfast. What of Potter."
Hermione held a hand over her mouth as she emitted a quiet gasp.
"Right," Filch continued. "Sat with his head together with all his friends, of course. And some Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws looked as if they were going to join him, but they sat back down again."
"Really? And who were these other students?"
"Other fifth years, I think, ma'am. I can never remember all their names, you know. There was the one what looks a bit like young Mr. Malfoy, and the little blonde girl from Hufflepuff…"
"That describes every other Hufflepuff student," Umbridge said, and a twisted smile formed on her face briefly before vanishing. "Very well, you can point these students out to me later. Have you had any further luck in intercepting his mail?"
There was another twist to Umbridge's face as she said this, and Hermione's eyes narrowed.
"No, ma'am," Filch said again, but Umbridge continued to smile, almost as if she had expected this answer.
"Of course not," Umbridge smiled. "But I, in fact, have."
And she proceeded to outline her capture of Hedwig. However, Hermione noted, she left out the details about almost capturing Sirius in the fire last night. For some reason, even as she gloated to Filch about her success, she wanted to keep that part a secret. But why?
Hermione snapped out of her ruminations when both Umbridge's and Filch's heads cracked up at the sound of stampeding hooves in the distance.
"Well, I'd best get back to the castle," Umbridge said. She held up Filch's note in the air for only a moment before she set fire to it with her wand. "Remember what I said about discretion, Argus."
"Of course, ma'am," Filch said, and bowed after her as she turned and hurried from the clearing. Filch cast one more look around him before he hastened after her.
Hermione crouched by the tree until her thighs were almost numb, waiting to give them enough of a lead, yet keeping an eye out for any other living creatures in the forest. Only once she had counted to five hundred did she rise shakily to her feet. But as she left the forest, she kept her disillusionment spell in place.
"I tell you that a sizable group of students is meeting for secret defense lessons in a room we cannot access and you don't even blink at it?"
Severus' fingers tightened on the arms of his chair as he sat watching Albus smile benignly at him from across his desk. The old man's elbows were perched on the desk, his fingertips pressed together in front of his chin as he surveyed Severus with his damnable twinkle.
"Really, Severus, what do you want me to do about it?"
"Do?" Snape thundered. "Put a stop to it!"
"Why?" Dumbledore asked simply.
"I–are you serious?" he hissed. "When they injure themselves–and trust me, they've got Potter as their teacher, so it is not a question of if but only a question of when–what will you do then? You've allowed that…" His hesitation reminded himself of Miss Granger. "Person to waltz in here and upend everything. The least you could do is not leave the students to fend for themselves."
Albus's brow twitched slightly upwards and Severus felt his furrow in defiant consternation. How dare the man make his own facial expression at him? And how dare he be so calm?
"I have not allowed Madam Umbridge to, as you say, waltz in here, Severus. I had no choice but to allow the Ministry to appoint their own teacher. When no one applied for the job–"
"You know very well that is not the case," Severus said icily, but Dumbledore continued.
"I found my hands tied," he said. "Furthermore, perhaps it is right that the students take their education into their own hands. It is a sign of their maturity, of their taking seriously the return of Lord Vold–"
Snape hissed in anticipation. As Dumbledore completed the name, as if oblivious to the warning flash in his eyes, Severus felt a sting travel from his wrist up his arm. Resentment, like that a dog feels when his master flicks at his nose, bubbled up in his stomach.
"And it gives Harry the much needed experience of leading people while also practicing his own defensive skills. In truth, Severus, I see several advantages to this little study group."
The boiling in his stomach gave way to ice.
"What do you have planned?" he demanded lowly.
Dumbledore sighed and flattened his hands onto the desk. "What ever do you mean, dear boy?"
"You are eager for the Potter boy to, as you put it, lead people, yet you haven't spent more than the barest amount of time in his presence this year. You are allowing Umbridge to run rampant over this school, and don't seem to care that Potter is jeopardizing the safety of dozens of students–"
"Dozens, is it?" Dumbledore interrupted. "And how is it that you know how many students are involved, Severus."
Snape's lips compressed into a thin line before he peeled them open again.
"I am sure you know the answer to that question."
"Yes," Dumledore mused, looking up at the portraits near the ceiling, a small smile at the edge of his lips. "Yes, I'm sure I do."
Severus leaned forward. "What are you planning?"
Albus's cool blue eyes shot down immediately and met his.
"What are you planning, Severus?" he asked.
His tone was light, harmless. But something in it felt like what it must be to step on ground filled with landmines. Uncertainty threaded its way through Severus's veins, even as he opened his mouth to deny planning anything, and then he grimaced with an aborted cry and clutched his arm.
"Duty calls," Dumbledore said quietly.
Severus tore from the room.
That evening, Hermione sat updating her Herbology notes in the Gryffindor common room while her knitting needles clicked in midair beside her. Harry and Ron's absence for Quidditch practice was more than welcome. After she had shared her theories about Umbridge and Sirius, she was glad of the reprieve. In the former case, she and the boys only felt more unsettled by the woman's clear viciousness; in the latter, she'd have to be dumber than the first years who eagerly accepted a sickle for every half dozen sweets Fred Weasley gave them to believe Harry wasn't upset with her. But was it so unreasonable to feel uncertain after the only person who would approve of their plans was a man who had been driven half mad over the twelve years of being locked up in Azkaban?
Immediately, she felt shame flood her stomach. Sirius was a good man, she believed. And he couldn't help that he had been wrongfully imprisoned for so long. Was she just anxious about what they were doing, or did she truly believe his judgment to be lacking? Cleverest witch of her age Remus may have called her, but when it came to parsing out her emotions and instincts, she may as well be trying to undo a ball of yarn after Crooks had gotten ahold of it.
Besides, while Sirius seemed to whole-heartedly approve of what they were doing, he wasn't the only adult who seemed okay with it. Snape hadn't seemed pleased, but he also hadn't demanded that she stop Dumbledore's Army at once. Perhaps it was only with grudging acceptance that he concluded their conversation yesterday, but it was acceptance. Surely that had to count for something.
These thoughts continued to only scramble in her head, however, which was why she was not working on Arithmancy. Numbers were solid, fixed, orderly. But even now she could not commit her mind to anything beyond sorting information. Her muscles were sore from running, her nerves were frayed from her observation of Filch and Umbridge in the forest, and anticipation of the first meeting tomorrow evening made her jittery.
She knew that she wouldn't sleep well tonight, and she almost hoped that she was at home, where she could spend her excessive energy in deep cleaning. However, at Hogwarts there was no need, apparently, for anyone to lift a finger to clean up at themselves. That's what house elves were for. The old irritation flared in her chest at the thought.
At least I can make them hats, she thought, casting a glance at the dark green wool pulling itself together.
She looked beyond the knitting to observe the common room. Fire crackled happily in the floo while rain still fell in buckets outside the windows. It was early enough in the week that students could be depended upon to buckle down a bit in the evenings on their work. Several small groups sat clustered around the room, revising essays, comparing Care of Magical Creatures sketches, or practicing their wandwork.
Ginny sat in another corner of the room and seemed to be teaching Neville something. No, Hermione corrected herself on second thought. It was Neville who was flipping through the fourth year Herbology text and pointing out something to Ginny. His face lit up as he talked and Ginny looked up at him with a polite but bemused smile on her face.
Well, that's interesting, Hermione thought, brows rising.
Something heavy jumped into her lap, breaking her concentration.
"Oh, hello, Crooks. Wait… again?"
The cat had spat out a square of parchment into her lap.
"I thought he wasn't free…?" she said it quietly, as she began unsealing the missive. Crookshanks gave a questioning meow and hopped down to wind himself between her shins.
Hermione smoothed out the parchment. Only two words were scrawled on it.
Office. Now.
A dark smear of something formed a blot below the ink. Hesitating, Hermione pressed her pointer finger to it lightly. It felt cold and barely damp in the warm room. When she pulled her hand away and examined her finger, it was dark red.
Her stomach felt as if it had fallen out to the floor. She shoved her notes into her bag, slung the bag over her shoulder, and half tripped over her cat, leaving her knitting to fall into a pile behind her as she dashed from the room.
"What's happened?" she gasped out immediately as she fell into the office. She barely registered that the door hadn't been locked or warded against her. She must have made it down to the dungeons in record time, and by some miracle had managed not to run into any ghosts or teachers. She clutched a stitch in her side, and though everything in her wanted to stop and catch her breath, she pulled herself through the room, eyes drawn to the tall dark figure half slumped over the desk.
"Finally," Snape said. But there was no bite to his word. Instead, it came out as a wheeze. When he looked up at her, his eyes were blank, but the skin around his eyes was tight.
Occluding, her brain registered dimly. In pain.
"What's happened?" she repeated, reaching an arm out to him.
A snarl like that of an animal tore from his chest, and then a grunt of pain.
"Don't…touch…my back," he ground out between slow breaths.
"I…alright, sir, I just… You called me down here. How am I supposed to help you?" she asked, not sure whether to focus on the panic she felt at seeing him or the irritation she felt at hearing his words.
"Come," he said, and he pulled himself up off the desk, though not completely upright.
He stumbled, but caught himself before she could touch him, then proceeded to a shelf just to the left of behind his desk. He selected a round blue jar from the shelf, but instead of plucking it from the shelf, he pressed it down until, to her astonishment, the jar completely flattened into the surface of the shelf. She heard a click, and then the entire shelf swung forward. It was a door.
She followed him through into a dark passage a couple steps, and then his voice was above her ear.
"Move," he said.
"But…where?"
And then she felt his hand on her shoulder as it pushed her, not ungently, to the left. She braced herself, but didn't hit a wall. She heard a scraping noise to her right, and then low light flared into existence. They were in his sitting room. Two clusters of candles on tables and a small fire shone from the marble fireplace. She was standing facing the back of the sofa and behind her–she turned–was the row of bookshelves. So one of them formed a passageway to his office. Convenient…
The grip on her shoulder slackened, and then his hand fell away as Snape stumbled forward and seized the back of the sofa, before clambering around it and bringing his hands to his chest where he wrestled, hissing in frustration, with the clasps.
"Sir, what's–"
"Oh, to hell with it!" he burst out. "Diffindo!" he snapped, and the robe slipped from his shoulders, having been sliced in two.
Hermione felt her mouth drop open. When Flitwick had first introduced them to the severing charm, he had warned them not to cast it upon their person, as doing so was highly dangerous and likely to be lethal. The utmost precision and focus was required even for Healers to use it during the wizarding equivalent of surgery. Yet Snape stood before her, dropping his wand onto the table, twisting out of the remains of his robe and standing in an immaculate white shirt, the lower buttons of which he began to undo.
She began to walk around behind him, then stopped. Her bag slipped off her shoulder and landed with a thud on the ground.
"Sir…"
But no words followed. Her mouth had gone completely dry at the sight of his back. While the front of his shirt was crisp and clean as ever, the back was bunched and soaked with blood.
"Yes, it's…not…pretty," Snape said, and something like a laugh puffed out of his chest.
His fingers shook as they worked higher up the front, continuing to undo buttons, until he pressed his lips together with a small cry. She watched as the muscles of his shoulders seemed to seize under his shirt, and he pressed his hands against his abdomen before they dropped to his sides and his head fell forward. Two long curtains of black hair obscured his face from her view, but she could clearly see that embarrassment, not pain, was what frustrated him now.
He began to stoop, fingers stretching blindly for his wand. Everything about him suggested a ship whose sails had been torn through by too vicious a wind, whose motionless crew all awaited the sure sentence of death by drought or starvation. She didn't know what compelled her, but she stepped forward.
"Here," she said quietly.
He froze, half crouching, as she advanced, not stopping until the toe of her shoe was only inches from his. Slowly, she brought her hands up and reached for the front ends of his shirt. Her fingers just brushed the fabric…
Snape snarled and smacked her hands out of the way, then let out another strangled noise, and she knew he had further strained the wounds on his back. She looked up into his face, and he glared wildly at her, his eyes two black dots blazing out at her from his face. He had shaken his long hair out and looked like a stray, starving dog.
"Granger–!"
"You brought me here, sir," she interrupted quietly but firmly. "Which means on some level that you want my help. If you don't mind my frankness, either accept my help or don't ask me."
She clenched her jaw shut to stop her chin from shaking as she stared back at him, trying not to express defiance, but feeling far too much as if a whirlwind had torn through her mind this evening to put up with his taciturn ways.
"Impertinent chit," he ground out between his teeth.
She sniffed, unable to help inhaling a metallic sent that was simultaneously repulsive and clarifying.
"Yes," she replied simply.
He glared at her a moment more, before bowing his head and hiding behind his hair again. Taking this to be his sign of permission, she bit her lip and slowly raised her hands again. She saw his shoulders tense right before they reached his shirt, then watched them untense a moment after her fingers lighted upon the lowest fastened button, which was halfway down his chest.
Forcing herself to breathe evenly, she slipped the button out of its hole, then advanced up the seams, making quick but gentle work of the next three.
"Chin up," she murmured, and he complied, raising his pointed chin in the air and avoiding her eye as she advanced to the topmost buttons. She undid the top one which nestled in the hollow of his throat, fingertips grazing against the smallest amount of stubble, before she took hold of the collar and slowly worked it open and away from his shoulders.
"Don't–"
Hermione jumped, hands still enclosed on the collar.
"I…sorry," Snape said, speaking to the ceiling. He swallowed and she watched his Adam's apple bob, watched as the faintest pink flooded his cheek. "I mean to say…don't worry about it…hurting. Just remove it…steadily."
"Right," she said lightly, hoping she wasn't betraying the fact that she hadn't even thought about the material of his shirt catching int he wounds on his back. Nor had she given thought to precisely what the wounds were that were about to be revealed.
She took a steadying breath, then pulled the shirt down over his shoulders in as even a movement as she could manage, bending slightly as she tried to gently tug it where it wanted to cling wetly to his back. He twitched under her movements only once, and then the shirt was free and lying in a wet, miserable mess on the floor. She stared down at it; revolting as it was, she felt it was safer than looking at any part of his body. The slightest warmth radiated from his bare skin in the air between them. There was a moment of silence and then he spoke again, still addressing the ceiling.
"I forgot to ask," he said conversationally. "How you feel about blood."
"Better you than me," she said automatically, then looked up, wide-eyed at his face. His head had snapped down and he searched out her eyes, open mouth astounded.
"I didn't mean it like that!" she hastened to say, feeling her face burn under his gaze. "I'm not…pleased…or anything. I just don't like the sight of my own blood. Other people's doesn't…well…bother me as much."
She waved between the two of them uselessly, then let her hand drop. The astonishment on his face melted until he regarded her blankly.
"Well, let no one say Hermione Granger is without a vindictive side…"
"I didn't mean–" she began impatiently, but then he turned around and she was shocked into silence.
Several lacerations covered his back, slicing at varying degrees of thickness. Some cuts were only a couple inches, but others were as long as her forearm. Blood still oozed from the deeper ones, while it seemed to have slowed and dried in a grotesque imitation of a Jackson Pollock piece across his pale skin. He lowered himself in front of her onto the couch until he was lying on his stomach, face turned out toward her and the rest of the room. A washcloth and bowl of water popped into existence on the table.
"First, you will need to clean the wound site," he said.
Sites, she wanted to correct him.
"After that, I will guide you through the spellwork on how to close up the wounds. None of these were inflicted with cursed objects, so it should be a simple job. Well, what are you waiting for?" he asked when she didn't move.
Hermione swallowed, then knelt, dipped the washcloth into the warm water and reached out to dab at his back. The moment the cloth came into contact with his skin, Snape let out a slow breath through barely parted lips.
"Is this too much?" she asked, not daring to move the washcloth or change how firmly she was pressing it against him.
"It is fine. Continue."
From that moment, he shut his eyes and breathed in a forced even rhythm as she wiped carefully across his shoulders, down his bony spine, and over the curve of his ribs. She became aware of the sound of her own breathing, which felt too loud in the quiet room, and also of just how thin he was without all of his usual billowing layers. Again and again she returned the washcloth to the water, and it grew redder and redder as she worked. Partway through, she waved her wand, replacing the bowl with new, warm water. As she worked, she fell into the kind of trance she had only had when working out arithmancy problems. This skin was not the tortured, flayed body of her professor; it was parchment. This red was not the lifeblood of a human being; it was a list of unneeded variables and factors. And these cuts were not the marks of violence; they were only runes for her to give special attention to, to treat carefully, to protect.
When his back was clean, she vanished the bowl and washcloth.
"Look at me," Snape murmured, and Hermione obeyed. His eyes shone steadily in the firelight, and the darkness of them, along with the strands of hair that he didn't bother to push out of his face, was startling after having her vision be filled only with red and white for the last several minutes. "The incantation is Vulnera Sanentur. You must trace your wand over the cuts as you say it. Well, it's more of a chant. Listen."
He cleared his throat and sang the words softly, and Hermione thought that it was one of the most hauntingly beautiful sounds she had ever heard. She had never heard a phoenix cry, but thought that the low notes emanating from Snape's chest might be something like it. For the duration, he did not break eye contact with her, as if willing her to internalize the information he was imparting to her.
"Ready?" he asked, after he had repeated the chant many times.
Hermione nodded, then pulled her wand out of her pocket. She settled the tip of it just above the first small cut at the top of his shoulder blade and began to chant. Her voice was weaker than his, and it cracked a little on her first attempt. Blushing, she pushed through, determination strengthening her voice until she had passed her wand over every cut. The deeper ones required her to chant multiple times before the skin knitted itself back together. She let out the final note, and then all was quiet.
Snape inhaled, held his breath, then let it out in a shudder, finally relaxing fully for the first time. He brought his hands up by his shoulders and began to push himself up.
"Sir, don't you want dittany?" Hermione asked.
"As if it would make any difference," he replied with a low snort.
"Please, wait…" she said, then flicked her wand. "Accio Dittany!" As she knew it would, a small bottle zoomed into her hand from a shadowy shelf. She unstoppered the bottle. "You summoned me to take care of you," she reminded him.
"Don't say that word," he said into the cushion of the couch.
She paused, dropper poised over one of the longer scars on his back. "Care?"
"Summon," he bit out.
Her hand wavered, and then a drop splashed down onto his skin.
"I don't mind," she murmured, adding a few more drops before using the pointer and middle fingers of her other hand to lightly rub the oil across the entire surface of the cut. "He took your blood. He doesn't need to take all the vocabulary words from the world, too."
Snape didn't say anything, whether because he was too tired to argue the point or whether he was giving it up as a lost cause, she didn't know. He remained still, only moving with even breathing again, as she worked, though she could almost feel his mind whirring next to her. Even battered and bleeding, he didn't stop. Is this what Ron meant when he said she thought too much?
She finished her work with the dittany, then leaned back on her heels and stoppered the bottle, blood tingling through her legs after being in her cramped position for so long. She scooped the shirt off of the ground and attempted to Scourgify it. While a good bit of the blood vanished, a faint pink stain remained.
"The house elves will sort it out," he said, rolling carefully onto his side.
"Yes, well," she said, then found she had nothing to add. She looked around the room, then found a peg to hang the shirt on, not willing to venture throughout his rooms to find a laundry basket. Somehow she didn't think his clemency could be stretched quite so far this evening. In her search, her eyes landed on the drink cart at the corner of the room. She stepped over to it and returned to his side moments later.
Snape peeled his eyes opened and looked up at her like a lizard who had been disturbed from a nap. Slowly, he pulled himself up into a seated position on the couch. His pale torso gleamed white in the dim light, but with a muttered word, a blanket rose and settled itself over his shoulders. As she handed him the glass, he raised an eyebrow meaningfully.
Hermione shrugged, defensive. "Last year my dad cut himself with the pruning sheers. After mum taped him up, he had me pour him a whiskey."
"And is this how much he usually drinks?" he asked. The amber liquid was only a few centimeters from the rim.
Hermione nodded and he snorted.
"To Richard Granger," Snape drawled, holding the glass aloft for a moment before taking a large swallow.
And just like Richard Granger, Snape pulled no face as he swallowed the liquor. Hermione felt a momentary stab in her chest and couldn't tell whether it was pity or half-hearted amusement. Maybe she just missed her family…
"Well…" she said, brushing her hands off on the wool of her skirt.
"Sit."
Hermione blinked. "I…what?"
"Do you think I merely asked you here to heal me? I could have gone to Pomfrey for that. Sit," he repeated. He took a second, smaller drink, then placed the glass, still half-full, on the table.
She seated herself slowly at the opposite end of the couch and bit her tongue, somewhat amused, as they simultaneously turned themselves in from the corners to face each other.
"Sir, why did you have me heal you instead of Madam Pomfrey?" she asked, surprising herself at only now considering the question.
"Several reasons," he said. "Convenience being one of them. But you also need to grow in the skill of healing as well."
"Healing, dueling, running, disguising myself…" Hermione listed, a half smile on her face. "Is there anything I don't have to learn this year?"
"Don't forget brewing, lying, and Occlumency," he said, wincing as he repositioned himself.
She, too, sat up straighter. "Occlumency?!"
"It's only a matter of time." His tone suggested that he found himself resigned to the fact. "Which brings us to part of why I called you here. While my research into the reason for our…connection did not yield the results I had hoped for, it is still worthwhile for us to test the limits of this connection. You object?" he asked, seeing her raise her eyebrows.
"No, sir," she said. "I'm only surprised."
"Elaborate," he said blankly.
"Well, I figured you wouldn't be pleased at our having this….this," she said lamely.
"Any pleasure or lack thereof which I take in it is beside the point. Can you not see that this could be a valuable asset in the war? If we can test the boundaries of its capabilities, then we may also harness the power it yields to our benefit. I was hoping to discover whether the source of our connection was a natural or artificial one."
"Natural or artificial, sir?"
"Whether we had it because of something in our nature or in our environment."
"Our…nature?" She blinked at him.
"Our genetics, as the Muggles would call it."
"I'm sorry," Hermione said, shaking her head. Perhaps the weariness of the evening was finally beginning to hit her. "You thought we might, what, be related?"
It sounded crazy coming out of her mouth, but he nodded.
"But…I'm Muggleborn. And you're–"
"Half-blood," he said, and Hermione's head jerked back in surprise.
"But I thought–"
"Yes, many think, but I don't exactly broadcast the information. You can understand, surely, why not." The corner of his lips twitched in an ironic smile and he wordlessly summoned his glass back into his hand and took a small sip.
"But…he is a half-blood, too."
"And not many people know that," he said, not sounding at all surprised himself at her revelation. "Nevertheless, I am a half-blood and so I thought it a good idea to investigate the question."
"Of whether we're related," she clarified.
"Yes," he said simply.
She stared at him when he didn't say more.
"And…" she finally prompted. Was he really going to make her ask? He only blinked at her slowly with his dark, shadowed eyes. "Are we?"
"We are not," he finally replied. "At least, not going back to the seventh generation on both our sides, which is more than enough to establish that any shared genetics that we might have is no greater than that of two randomly selected individuals in the world."
"Oh," she said, not sure what that meant they should look into next. She slumped back slightly, a strange feeling of relief removing the tension in her shoulders. A thought struck her and her muscles tensed again. "Wait. How did you find out my ancestry going back seven generations? I don't even know that."
"It is all a matter of public record," Snape said, an eye roll betraying his impatience.
"You went and did research through Muggle records? Of course you did," she quickly muttered, eager to banish the unimpressed expression on his face. "I'm sorry, sir, it's just difficult to imagine you…"
"What?" he nearly snapped. "In libraries and archives? I'm not a complete imbecile, you know."
The thought of Severus Snape and complete imbecile in the same sentence only made sense if he were calling someone else by that description.
"Of course not, sir. So where does that leave us?"
"It may be a purely magical connection because of our dispositions to types of magic. But–" he said, cutting her off when she opened her mouth to ask a question. "We can get into that later. What I also called you here for is to keep you aware of the Dark Lord's movements."
"I…why?" Hermione asked, suddenly nervous.
"Because it is not only helpful for allowing you to see more of the full picture, but necessary for you to best advise Potter."
"Right, sorry. I just…" she broke off and began to pick at a loose thread in her skirt.
"Yes?" he pressed. He wasn't angry, she noted, nor sarcastic. Instead, he just seemed tired. Probably, he was counting down the seconds until she would be leaving.
"I just was wondering," she said slowly. "Why it is that I'm the one to keep Harry informed of these things instead of Dumbledore."
"You misunderstand," Snape said, and she peered at him. There was a flash of something uncomfortable in his eyes, and then it was gone. Was he in pain?
"It is not that you should communicate these things to Potter," he continued. "After all, he will wonder how you know it. Rather, it is for you to utilize the information, whether that means that it influences the conversations you have with him or you advice caution to him in the right moment. By no means do I intend that you inform him about he Dark Lord's activities directly, nor reveal my part in this."
"Yes, that part goes without saying." She braced her hands against her knees. "Right, what should I know about the Dark….about him?" she said, feeling her tongue twist away from naming the man the way his Death Eaters did.
Snape stiffened and then his face went blank, his voice screening through the words in a monotone, as if he had memorized his speech, or maybe he was occluding now as much as he could, separating himself from the events of the evening.
"The Dark Lord was angry tonight. He called almost all of us to him. It was early enough that some of his followers would still be in public, at work…" She noted that he, somehow, was not extended this same courtesy. Maybe Snape, who essentially worked twenty-four seven was a special case. "He did not make the source of his anger clear, but to those of us who have regularly been in his presence over the past several months, it was clear. There is something that the Dark Lord wants and has been trying to get his hands on for almost as long as he has had his resurrected body."
"What is it?" Hermione asked, excitement twisting in her stomach. Harry had mentioned a weapon. Could this be it?
"I do not know," he said, rubbing absent mindedly at his wrist. There was just enough emphasis on the last word to prompt her next question.
"What do you suspect?"
There was silence.
"If it is what I suspect…" he said slowly, staring into the flames of the fireplace. "Then the pace of this war should pick up quickly and possibly be concluded in a handful of years. Maybe less…"
Hermione felt her face blanch and, despite the warmth of the room, a shiver skipped down her spine. Tears sprang to the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them and the fear that accompanied them back. She found herself incapable of speaking for what felt like an hour.
"So he was angry," she finally prompted when she trusted her voice to be steady.
"He grows impatient," Snape continued quietly, firelight dancing on his pale skin. "Too many people have disappointed him lately."
"Surely not you," she said, though she knew there must be a reason for him returning to the castle in the state he had. "What are you supposed to do while at Hogwarts?"
"Surely you don't suppose the Dark Lord is completely rational. Besides, think of all the ways I have failed him."
"How?" Hermione asked, genuinely confused.
He looked at her for a long moment, eyes scanning her face as if seeing the naivete there ut instead of pitying or mocking her, regarding her wistfully, as if he missed being so ignorant. He sighed.
"Each day I do not bring Potter to him, each time I give an excuse about Dumbledore's power and cunning, each year I have to explain why I yet again have not gotten the Defense position is a failure in the Dark Lord's eyes"
Fear stirred in her stomach.
"How has he not killed you by now?" she blurted, then covered her mouth. "Sir, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean–"
He raised a hand.
"Despite it all, I am valuable. I can bring him information he has no other way to access."
"How?" she asked, feeling wretched as she regarded him with a frown. She could almost feel his scars beneath her fingertips again, feel the minute flinching of his muscles away from her touch as she had massaged in the dittany. "How do you manage it?"
His eyebrows rose faintly, then dropped back down. He returned his gaze to the flames, and something about his expression closed.
"It is what I agreed to." He turned his face to her, and she already saw the demand in his face before he gave voice to it. "And you must do what you have agreed. Do not get caught."
Professor Snape's words rang in her ears the next day as she read off the book titles on the shelves in the Room of Requirement. Despite her excitement, she had to muffle a yawn. She had not returned to her dormitory until almost midnight and found herself incapable of sleeping for still another hour. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the cuts lacing their way up and down Snape's back.
The lesson itself, she considered, was a success, despite the fact that Ron sought any opportunity to show her up. Boys, honestly, she thought as they walked back to the common room. Once there, she didn't even need to provide an excuse before she turned to her own staircase and went up to bed.
Lavender and Parvati were chatting quietly to each other with excitement about the lesson and Hermione gave them a half smile before ducking into her own bed and drawing the curtains. After casting a silencing charm, she reached into her pillowcase and pulled out a fistful of coins. For the second night in a row, she fell asleep only in the early hours; and for the second morning in a row, she woke in a tangle of sheets, muffling her gasp, having dreamed of a tall, white-faced figure casting Diffindos again and again upon a huddled mass on the floor.
The remaining weeks of October passed in a blur of bad weather, sleepless nights, and as much time as possible spent doing what Hermione dubbed her extracurricular work. She and Viktor were now in weekly correspondence, and his latest missive had come with a small black book and an even smaller post script telling her not to reveal to anyone where she had gotten it. She strongly suspected it had been filched from the Durmstrang library, for when she had thumbed through it, she found it to be filled with all manner f dark potions that were even more disturbing than those found in Moste Pontente Potions.
In this way, she knew that despite what others may think with his broken English, Viktor was not dumb. And while he had been outspoken against the use of dark magic (he had confided in Hermione after the Tournament how much he despised the enforced classes at Durmstrang after experiencing for himself being under the Imperius Curse), he seemed to be able to read between the lines in her letters enough to believe she might benefit from the book and not be wholly repulsed by it.
The potions, truly, were repulsive; nonetheless, she found herself opening the small book late in the night, drawn to it not as if it were a siren call, but as if forcing herself to imagine the possible scenarios in which she may want to brew and use such potions. They truly seemed designed for war: one melted the skin of the person who drank it, another was a slow-acting poison with no apparent symptoms other than unusually bad breath, and still another had effects equivalent to those of a bomb.
She continued with her morning runs, though she never returned to the clearing, having forgotten to bring it up during her meeting with Snape and not having been called into his presence since that bloody Tuesday night. Instead, she ducked just past the tree-line close to the lake and conjured the same targets Snape had shown her and practiced there. As long as it was early enough and she cast her precautionary privacy spells, she felt she was safe from Umbridge and any other creatures who might visit her.
If during the dark hours she felt she was advancing in Snape's lessons, she still had to contend with normal life during the daylight hours. The teachers piled on more homework, and if Hermione had a galleon for every time a professor reminded them it was O.W.L. year, she could have bought the whole Gryffindor team new racing brooms.
That wouldn't have been much help, though, because Malfoy still managed to throw a wrench into everything. She questioned herself for momentarily considering him having matured a bit as an all out brawl broke out upon the Quidditch field the first weekend in November. Face still flaming with anger at hearing the lyrics that Draco no doubt came up with for "Weasley is Our King", she thought her very skin could catch fire with rage as she watched Malfoy yell something at Harry and then saw Harry lunge for the blonde boy.
When she heard the news after the match, it was all she could do to keep her temper in check. She wasn't sure whether the lack of sleep was wearing her down or whether Umbridge really was that foul. She tried to bring some comfort to Harry and the rest of the team as she sat with them and Ginny in the common room that evening, but she could barely think of a thing to say. One of the only happinesses Harry had in his life and that woman had stripped it away from him. There in the room, she vowed to herself that she would get back at the miserable toad. Defying her with the DA was one thing; but this called for revenge.
Ron returned to the common room, looking like death warmed up, and she picked herself up from the couch as he and Harry began arguing back and forth about whether Ron should remove himself from the team.
Oh, Ron, she thought miserably. You're making everything worse.
It wasn't a kind thought, but didn't he have the tact to see that Harry was aching to trade places with him? He was far too noble to admit it, of course, but Hermione hadn't spent time around the subtle Professor Snape not to pick up on small signs. The bitter twist to Harry's mouth betrayed his envy and self-resignation.
She rested her forehead against the cool windowpane, watching the snow flurry in the night sky. Her gaze was so hazy and unfocused that it took several seconds to realize what she was looking at. She turned around to the boys, relieved to feel a smile pulling at her face.
"Hagrid's back."*