Chapter Text
Hermione stole quickly through the deserted Hogwarts hallways at dusk, glancing around warily. In fact, she had nothing to be afraid of—it wasn’t yet night, and the bells would not ring for bedtime for another hour. She had more than enough time to reach her destination and plead her case. And if she were refused on the doorstep without a hearing (which was more than likely), then the whole sorry thing would be over in less than fifteen minutes.
And yet, for some reason, she dreaded being noticed. A feeling, deep and intuitive. Professor Trelawney had once claimed that Hermione wholly lacked intuition for divination, but after the events of the summer, the Gryffindor had learned to trust her gut. Now, a premonition of danger had drawn her out into the dark and quiet castle. It was emanating from her unusually light school bag, which contained but a single book: the ill-fated Advanced Potion-Making tome Slughorn had lent Harry. And it was imperative that Harry never find out she had stolen it.
She was astounded how easily Harry and Ron had swallowed that, after a single inspection, she had cast aside her suspicions to trust the pompously-named stranger. The sheer childishness of her friends’ actions horrified her. With real danger approaching, when even the slightest negligence could prove disastrous, Harry thoughtlessly followed instructions from an unknown person, experimenting with unfamiliar spells at random! And Ron—Ron merely encouraged him!
Having voiced her fears only to be met with stupid accusations of jealousy, Hermione lost all hope of appealing to the boys' sanity. And so she had taken a risk and stolen the book, to bring it to someone well-versed in both the Dark Arts and Potion —someone who could provide a more thorough examination than a mere sixth-year student. Now, she had to convince him to help.
Hermione reached the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. She raised a hand to knock, but then hesitated; Professor Snape was more likely to be in his office upstairs. If so, her knocking would flock every ghost in the castle long before the teacher would hear it.
The heavy door opened soundlessly at her push. The classroom was shrouded in darkness, save for the lone lamp on Professor Snape’s desk, which illuminated a lonely yellow circle. There he was, checking students’ essays. He would unfold a parchment, skim it, wince, dip his quill deep into the inkwell, scratch a mark at the foot of the sheet, and finally put it aside to pick up the next one. Hermione watched from the shadows.
“Ahem,” she finally said, her voice cutting through the quiet. “Sir, may I have a word?”
He didn’t flinch, and Hermione couldn’t tell if he had noticed her presence long ago or if he was just that cold-blooded. If someone had spoken suddenly in an empty room beside her, she would’ve jumped out of her skin. Those kinds of reactions had been common for her ever since the battle at the Department of Mysteries.
“You mean to have a hundred words,” Professor Snape said, without looking up from the parchment he was reviewing. “Or a thousand. Brevity is not your talent, Miss Granger.”
Well, he is in his usual mood. Still, Hermione focused on the important part: he was going to listen to her. She would take it. She was here on business, not to exchange pleasantries.
No one would call Severus Snape a pleasant person, and certainly not Hermione after his comment about her teeth. However, she recognized his intelligence, appreciated his knowledge, and, most importantly, she trusted him. And with a disaster looming, that trust meant a great deal.
She closed the door behind her, walked down the aisle between the rows of student desks, and stopped at his desk, on the edge of light.
“Harry needs your help, Sir,” Hermione said, enduring Snape’s bored and disdainful gaze. She took his silence as permission to continue. “He is in deep trouble, and it’s about Potions.”
“You have the wrong person and the wrong room. Professor Slughorn teaches Potions this year,” he said, his voice dripping with disinterest.
“But you are the only one who can help him!”
“I do not offer tutoring.” Professor Snape slowly dipped his quill into the inkwell and wrote a large D on the essay.
“You misunderstand me, Sir! It’s not about Harry's grades. In fact, he’s earning a lot of House points from Slughorn!”
“Ah, I see,” he sneered. “Is the know-it-all afraid of being overshadowed by the Boy Who Lived to Annoy Everyone?”
Two insults and an unfair accusation in one sentence. He is on a roll. But Hermione had no time for his mockery. Back in her dormitory, she had an unfinished translation on Ancient Runes and a long chapter on Poisonous Tentacula to read for Herbology.
This year, Hermione had been pushing herself harder than ever. If she could get another Time-Turner, she would. After the Department of Mysteries, she had seen that magical skill could be a matter of life and death—so she tried to learn everything she could. You never knew what piece of knowledge might save a life one day. Besides, the heavy workload helped her get tired enough to sleep without nightmares, at least partially. So Snape’s performance—acting like the “dungeon bat” to a supposedly silly girl—didn’t hurt her. It just annoyed her. It was a waste of precious time.
“Have you finished, Sir?” Hermione asked, a note of weariness in her voice.
“Finished with what?” Snape asked, his smug look fading into one of genuine curiosity.
“This act. You pretend you aren’t interested so that I have to beg you to listen. Please, let’s skip that part and get to the point. This is serious.”
Professor Snape slowly rose from his chair, looking down at her. It wasn’t one of his usual glares. He just stared, completely thrown by her audacity.
“Ten points from Gryffindor,” he said, his voice dangerously soft. “For intolerable insolence.”
They stood separated by the massive desk, locked in a stubborn staring contest. Snape didn't notice a drop of red ink swelling on his quill before it fell onto the forgotten essay.
“Thank you, Sir. Now, can we behave like adults?”
“Will you not even feign remorse, Miss Granger?” Snape asked.
His theatrical severity was starting to grate on Hermione’s nerves. She reminded herself that she was the one asking for a favor, and it wasn’t a good idea to make Professor Snape truly angry. But something in her rebelled against the need to pretend and hide her true feelings. She needed to be taken seriously, and Snape’s games were poorly timed. She didn’t have the energy for them, even for Harry’s sake.
“I have nothing to feel remorse for, Sir,” Hermione said, pulling her bag off her shoulder and dropping it onto a nearby desk behind her. “I do respect you, and I expect the slightest respect in return.”
“Fifty points from Gryffindor.”
“At this rate, my house will have no points left soon,” she said, staring back without blinking.
“Two hundred points!” he snapped.
Hermione was half-surprised she didn’t hear the rumble of rubies draining from the Gryffindor hourglass all the way on the third floor.
“You’re only creating problems for yourself, Sir. Professor McGonagall will definitely ask tomorrow why so many points were taken from her house. What will you tell her?”
“Detention with Mr. Filch!” His gaze was sharp enough to cut metal.
“Fine. Name the day.”
Snape sighed and looked away first. He cursed under his breath as he saw the red inkblot on the essay, another drop already forming on his quill’s tip. He set the quill aside, picked up his wand, and flicked it over the parchment.
“Excuro!” Then he hissed something else, unintelligible and annoyed.
Hermione approached, leaned over the desk, and looked at the parchment. She saw that Professor Snape had waved his wand too broadly, wiping away not just the inkblot, but half of the student’s writing as well.
“It seems the ink was not yet dry,” Snape muttered darkly. “These dunderheads always scribble their homeworks at the last minute!”
“Let me help,” Hermione said, pulling her wand from her bag.
“Do not meddle, Miss Granger! Do you presume your skill with common charms is superior to mine?”
Though his question was rhetorical, Hermione recalled the numerous, contradictory school legends that attempted to explain why Professor Snape couldn’t manage his hair—if not with soap and water, then at least with magic. Of course, she wouldn’t repeat these rumors to him. She hadn’t been in the mood for jokes that evening, or for many weeks prior.
Setting his own wand aside, he returned to the matter at hand.
“Now you will listen to me, Miss Granger. I do not know what you have concocted in that head of yours, and I have no desire to know. I do not care about the grades the Boy Who Annoyed receives from other professors. I have had quite enough of teaching Defence to you three. And if the Boy Who Is Too Conceited cannot be bothered to ask me himself for whatever he needs, and instead sends his—”
“Harry doesn’t know I’m here,” Hermione interrupted.
“Then why are you?” he asked, his voice dripping with scorn. “Is it Gryffindor beneficence that keeps you from your bed?”
“As I’ve already said, you are the only one who can help Harry.”