AN: Here we are at a year into writing, and I feel like the time has flown by. Thank you for reading and sticking with this story. I appreciate it! This is a bit of a shorter chapter with multiple small vignettes planting some seeds... Fear not: action is coming in the next chapter.

Chapter 15: Hiems

There were a few things that had the ability to almost instantly put Hermione in a bad mood. One was not knowing something, a second was being frigidly cold, and a third was Ron Weasley in a bad mood of his own. Thankfully she wasn't facing a trifecta when she returned from her Sunday morning trip to Hagrid's cabin through two feet of snow, but it was a near thing.

Not only had she felt entirely unsuccessful in her attempts, Hagrid was still refusing to tell her what exactly it was that he was so obviously hiding from the three of them. She'd wanted to pull her hair, point out that she at least had wasted her hours away in the library researching legislation to help his case for Buckbeak, that of anyone Hagrid could and should trust her to provide a reasonable ear. But her efforts were in vain.

The next morning, when the Weasley twins ran up to greet Hagrid at the staff table, she allowed her eyes to slide over and examine the rest of the table. Umbridge was heaping spoonful after spoonful of sugar into her tea. Trelawney was staring gloomily into her porridge as she stirred it. McGonagall had a small, hesitant smile on her face and seemed to be pretending that there was nothing wrong with Hagrid's face. Dumbledore was absent, as had become a more regular occurrence.

Her gaze landed on Snape who paused a moment after her eyes settled upon him, and then he looked directly into her eyes. She twitched her chin, glancing from Hagrid and back, willing him to understand her question. But Snape only minutely raised a single brow and brought his cup of tea to his lips. "If you're such a clever spy, then figure it out," his expression seemed to say. She narrowed her eyes.

Fine, she thought in his direction. Be that way.

Hermione turned away and began checking that her bag had all of her books, valiantly attempting to block out Lavender and Parvati's whispered discussion of whether there was the slightest chance Grubbly-Plank would stay on. She failed.

Later that afternoon, her mood did not improve.

As Umbridge spoke in her ridiculous patronizing voice and mimed everything to Hagrid, Hermione could only be grateful that she didn't have her wand in her hand. She was shaking so badly with anger that her aim wouldn't have been precise, but she still forced herself to stay standing during class, imagining that all of the spells she had cast in the clearing were headed toward Umbridge's face.

November was passing even quicker than October had. The grounds became absolutely treacherous to attempt to run on. It took Hermione slipping and falling hard on ice to call off the whole routine. But after waking up at five in the morning on a Thursday with the bizarre yet pressing desire to run even in her bones, Hermione dressed quietly, snuck out of Gryffindor tower, and made her way to the Room of Requirement. While she doubted the Room would conjure a muggle treadmill, surely it must have some way of helping her.

"I need somewhere to exercise," she said quietly, suppressing the urge to laugh out loud at herself.

Maybe I really am going crazy, she thought, but she repeated the petition with three turns back and forth in front of the stone wall until a small door appeared and she slipped inside.

The Room was half the size it had been for the DA meetings, and while there weren't any treadmills standing around, there were several sets of dumbbells, a skipping rope, a punching bag, and a yoga mat on the floor. Mirrors, which Hermione desperately hoped had not been charmed with the ability to provide commentary, covered half of the wall. A low table with towels stood to the side.

"Are you serious?" she asked the Room. Of course, it didn't reply. "Well, let's see what we can do…"

It was nothing like running. In her early mornings on the grounds, she had gotten used to the way he lungs filled with cool air and puffed out mist that hung like a cloud in front of her. She had gotten used to the rhythm of her trainers pounding on the hard ground. She had begun to enjoy the sounds of nature waking up, of the day beginning. And if she was lucky, after a while the difficulties of running faded away and her mind could be blissfully muted.

Here in the Room, she had no sign of the outside world, let alone nature. It was just her in the quiet, muttering ideas to herself as she attempted different exercises she had seen on television. Her mind spun, second-guessing each thought of an exercise, constantly wondering whether the weight was enough, if her form was right, if she had just made up this movement in her head. She avoided the punching bag altogether, and after enough fumbling around with the weights, decided to just skip rope. Surely she knew how to do this.

The saying "just like riding a bicycle" didn't entirely follow. She tripped over the rope half a dozen times before she managed to sort out a steady rhythm. Her breath came in steady pants, and sweat began to form on her forehead. This was the most akin to running, and she was surprised to find that she was able to keep up her skipping for a good while before she stopped, bending over her knees to catch her breath. If only she had a glass of water…

A pitcher and glass popped into existence on the same table with the towels and she shook her head.

"I will never get used to magic," she told herself, wiping her face with the towel and then draining the glass in one go.

And so Hermione's new routine began. She woke at five, did her indoor exercise often accompanied by target practice the Room smoothly adjusted for, bathed in the Prefects' bath (she didn't know why it had taken her months to realize that no one else would be up so early to occupy it), and squeezed in an hour of work before breakfast. Because the library wasn't open until breakfast began, she often found herself in deserted classrooms or one of the various study nooks around the castle. She would either continue her correspondence–she and Fleur had now settled upon the 6th of January–, read about Occlumency, or add to her French potion student Anne persona. While Snape had given her no hint as to when she would be called upon to demonstrate any skill in these latter two, she wanted to be prepared.

Over breakfast, she would scour the Prophet for any news, chat with the boys, and do some last minute revision before throwing herself into classes with all her usual fervor–minus Umbridge's class, of course. While she had much of the day free on Fridays, ten courses of O.W.L. work was nothing to sneeze at. On top of that, her evenings were taken up with twice weekly Prefect duties, DA meetings, and library visits for the academic and additional studies she was taking on.

It was on an evening in early December that she entered the library, books gleaming in the warm glow of the lamps and filling her with the usual small bubble of happiness, that she rounded a shelf to enter her favorite nook, only to find it already occupied.

"Nott?" she blurted in surprise before she could stop herself.

The tall, thin boy jumped slightly and looked up at her from her–no, it doesn't belong to me, she chided herself–his chair. His appearance spoke clearly of having been settled in for some time. His tie was loosened around his neck, and while one leg was still bent normally, the other was splayed out straight before him, his body slouching slightly against the back of the chair. Ink dotted his fingertips, and she saw runes jotted over the roll of parchment on the table beside him.

He looked around, as if checking to see whether Pince, or perhaps Harry and Ron, were with her. Despite knowing him for years, Hermione found that she had never properly looked at him before. He had a pale face that was a little too thin, the skin stretching over high cheekbones and a stubborn chin. A full mouth softened the harsh lines of his face, and moss green eyes peered at her from under the kind of floppy, light brown hair she imagined Remus had had before lycanthropy prematurely aged him.

"Yes?"

His voice was quiet but clear, and she lowered her voice in response, realizing how loudly she had said his name.

"Sorry. I usually sit there. It's fine," she added quickly, fearing that he would take that to mean that she wanted him to leave. He only blinked at her. She began to back up. "You were here first, I'll just…go find somewhere else. Again, sorry."

She turned and had taken a two steps before she paused. As she turned around, she told herself not to say it, told herself she had no idea what she was doing, that it wasn't her business... He was still looking up at her, wariness pulling his eyebrows together.

"Yes?" he said again. There was an edge to his voice. Of anticipation or warning, she didn't know. She watched as his shoulders twitched higher, and it was that sign of defensiveness that solidified her decision. She clasped her hands in front of her.

"I'm sorry," she said.

He didn't move. "You've said that already," he pointed out.

"Not about the chair," she said, waving her hand. "About…" Her hands clasped together again and her right thumb automatically reached for the other to pick at its cuticle. "Well, about whoever it was that you…that you saw…die," she finished weakly.

For Theodore Nott had been the third person to raise his hand during Hagrid's return Care of Magical Creatures class, a detail that her later fury had momentarily eclipsed but which had not been entirely forgotten.

"Don't be," he said, and his voice was stronger than she'd ever heard it. A scowl had etched itself onto his face, and she was reminded of people like Malfoy, who surely wouldn't have taken her hand if he was dangling off the edge of a cliff.

She took a half-step backwards, feeling both wrongfooted and afraid that she had said something offensive.

"I…" she began. But she closed her mouth. "Right, sorry. It really isn't any of my business, I suppose. Um…see you in class."

The effective goodbye was said more to the rug at her feet than it was to the lanky Slytherin. Even as she headed for the exit, mind a complete tangle of thoughts, she wasn't sure why she had said anything at all.

"–which were, overall, not as effective as we would have liked," Albus admitted, looking down briefly at his hands splayed over the wooden table before casting a measured look at each of the assembled Order members. "And so for those of you in regular contact with Hagrid, I would ask that you not draw attention to the subject."

"Or to the state of his face," Minerva muttered out of the corner of her mouth and Severus had to bite his tongue not to crack a smile.

Truly, the man had no tact. If he would only make the quick journey to Madam Pomfrey, he could be set to rights. Instead, he had to employ his own slow-acting methods, giving the students ample time to start rumors like wildfire about where he had been and what he had been up to. Umbridge had taken note of every single one of them.

"The next item," Dumbledore continued, sliding a sheet of parchment toward himself. Severus was willing to bet all the gold in his Gringotts vault that he in fact had heard the deputy headmistress's words. "Concerns our rotation. With Bode out, Lupin beginning his mission tomorrow, and Tonks ill, we need additional personnel."

Snape cast a quick eye down the table from his spot near the door. Minerva's lips had thinned, no doubt frustrated by the fact that she couldn't volunteer if she wanted to. No one at Hogwarts could: not only did their schedules hardly permit their absence even in the middle of the night (granted, this was something the Dark Lord did not take issue with), but the unauthorized presence of any Hogwarts staff member on Ministry property would appear as an overreach by Dumbledore. Vance and Podmore, already on the rotation, were also looking around hopefully with heavy under-eye circles. Severus's eyebrow twitched as his gaze landed on Sirius, who sat lazily tracing circles into the whorled wood. The dog wasn't jumping to volunteer. Had he finally been beaten into obedience or was he moping about for some other reason?

"I'd be happy to volunteer, Albus," Arthur Weasley spoke up. As if in afterthought, he looked over at Molly. For a moment her mouth trembled as if she wanted to protest, but then she nodded submissively.

"Thank you, Arthur," Albus said. A polite smile danced on his mouth for a moment and then it slipped away. "Well. That's all the official business. I daresay we have time for a small treat..."

With that said, he pulled out his wand and with a few waves, holy and ivy curled into existence around doorframes, above windows, and in a large centerpiece on the table. Molly grinned and joined in as if she had been prepped in advance, sending plates of biscuits and steaming mugs of hot chocolate around the room. Small noises of delight and surprise punctuated the room even with their small group. The legs under Severus's chair screeched as he began to rise, but a clawlike hand descended upon his wrist.

"The world will not end if you sit for a minute and enjoy yourself," Minerva said, pressing into his arm for an additional moment before retreating to select a ginger newt.

"Won't it?" Severus muttered, but found himself picking up a lemon drizzle shortbread-one of Molly's specialties-whereupon he broke it into minute pieces before popping them slowly into his mouth.

"It'll at least do you some good to avoid suffering Dolores in the staff room."

At the mention of the new Defense teacher, Lupin caught on to their conversation and leaned across the empty seat on Severus's other side.

"How is that going?" he asked. The question was addressed to them both, but he primarily looked to Minerva for a response.

Minerva let out a humorless laugh. "A worse teacher in my life I have never seen."

"Oh, I don't know," Severus said, perfectly deadpan. "She can actually cast spells, unlike Lockhart."

"Her classes are pure theory! What spells are you talking about?" Minerva demanded.

Severus considered the pieces of biscuit before him, selected one, chewed it slowly and swallowed. "I'm sure she warmed her tea once at breakfast. Sent a trip jinx at Filch the last time he tried to track her down. And you know, she must Evanesco the horns every morning."

Minerva rolled her eyes with a scoff, and Lupin gave a small laugh, shaking his head.

And what she fails to teach them in practice, she teaches them in taking initiative. But he did not know who knew about the defense group apart from himself and Dumbledore, so he said nothing.

"What are you lot laughing about down there?" Sirius demanded. Unlike Lupin, while his question was directed at them all, his eyes-suspicious and moody-latched onto Severus.

Lupin began to explain about Umbridge, but Sirius interrupted.

"Well, that's why they've gone on to teach themselves, isn't it?" he said.

Severus felt like he had just been doused in ice water. Holy Salazar...

"What do you mean, teaching themselves?" All Minerva's easy-going demeanor disappeared to be replaced by rigidity. Not long after, Severus managed to slink away, unnoticed, arm twitching at his side.

"I'm going skiing with my parents, remember?" Hermione said, even as she finished off her letter to her parents expressing the exact opposite. Doxy flu. It's not deadly, but it's highly contagious, especially to Muggles. I'll let you know as soon as it clears up.

"Muggles," Ron muttered under his breath.

She set her quill down with a firm click. "Excuse me, Ronald?"

"Zooming down a mountain with bits of wood strapped to your feet. It's mad, isn't it?"

"Oh I don't know," Hermione said sharply, tapping her chin. "I'm sure I can think of something that sounds even madder and also involves wood and maybe being…oh, a hundred feet off the ground."

"If you're having a go at Quidditch—"

"Of course I am!" Hermione said, though what she really wanted to do was turn his own words on him. He was the one having a go at her parents. Surely that was the bigger slight. "Quidditch has way more injuries than skiing does. In fact, I've never been injured."

"C'mon 'Mione. Quidditch isn't that dangerous."

"Oliver got knocked out and laid up in the hospital for a week by a bludger," she said, holding up a finger. "Harry almost suffocated on the Snitch his first match." She held up a second finger.

"Wicked catch, mate," Ron said lowly, grin on his face.

"Leave me out of it," Harry said, despite the fact that he was hiding a smile.

"Katie got pummeled by those Slytherins in the same match." She raised another finger.

"Yeah, but that's Slytherins, isn't it?" Ron tried to catch Harry's eye, but the black-haired boy had returned his attention to his Divination homework.

"Smith got electrocuted last year." Another finger.

"Git," Ron replied, no doubt remembering his rather unfortunate pairing with the Hufflepuff last DA meeting.

"Malfoy—"

Ron groaned. "Not Slytherins again. Don't tell me you're about to defend Malfoy!"

"Fine," she said briskly. "In our second year, Cedric—"

Ron's eyes went wide and panicked, but she had already stopped herself. Both of them looked warily at Harry who was still bent over his scroll.

"Well…" Ron said, steering the conversation away from too dangerous waters. "Even if Quidditch is dangerous, we have magic to heal anything. Two seconds with a wand and you're right as rain."

"I'm sure Harry didn't feel right as rain after two seconds trying to grow his bones back."

"Don't bring me into this, I said," Harry interjected, but she and Ron continued to squabble back and forth until Hermione felt a sudden, piercing headache stab behind her eyes. She stood up with a muffled gasp and began collecting her belongings, blinking through the stars that swam in her vision.

"Thrilling as this conversation about how absolutely mad my parents are has been, I've got work to finish."

"I didn't say—" Ron protested.

"Good night, Harry," she said civilly, then marched as steadily as she could up the girls' staircase.

Only when she was safely behind her door in her blissfully empty dorm did she collapse to her knees, gasping as she pressed her palms to her eyes. The haziest of images fluttered behind her eyes, but before her brain could latch on to them with any understanding, they slipped away as if being submerged in water. She didn't know what it felt like to be on fire, but she thought it might be something like this. And then, just as shockingly as it had begun, the pain stopped. Her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. With a shaking but determined hand, she reached for her wand and cast a simple diagnostic on herself. Runes spun slowly above her in the air, cool blue script glowing softly.

Everything was fine.

Then why do I feel as if someone just tore apart my mind?