Chapter Text
Hermione Granger climbed the staircase to Headmistress McGonagall's office, one month to the day after her graduation ceremony, when she surveyed the castle for what was to be the last time. She was dizzy with apprehension, but knocked nonetheless."Enter," called Professor McGonagall.
She did, drying her hands on her skirt. The portraits watched her beadily, as did the Headmistress.
"I got your owl this morning, Professor. You wanted to see me?"
"Indeed I did. Sit." She sat. "I am going to spoil the surprise of your N.E.W.T. results, Miss Granger, and inform you that you received the highest overall score in 50 years."
Hermione allowed herself a small smile. Professor McGonagall smiled back, seeming genuinely pleased.
"As such, I'd like to offer you the post of Professor of Muggle Studies."
Hermione stared. The very thin segue had startled her.
"But Professor," she said, striving to be reasonable, "I've never done a formal apprenticeship. I didn't do a Muggle Studies N.E.W.T. I took a year of Muggle Studies!"
"That is irrelevant both to me and, if they know what's good for them, the board of governors." Professor McGonagall waved her objections away. 'You are an uncommonly clever muggle-born witch and a war hero, and I am giving you free reign to rebuild this program from the ground up. Unless, of course, you have other plans?"
The sudden pinprick of shame didn't distract her from the objectionable part of Professor McGonagall's reasoning. Hermione felt the need to dry her hands again before speaking.
"You want me to teach Muggle Studies because I'm famous," she said flatly. "Because I would draw people to the program. Not because I'm anywhere near qualified."
Professor McGonagall sighed and leaned back in her chair.
"Would you like a lemon drop?" she asked, pointing at a dish on her desk. "Professor Dumbledore's portrait gets rather shirty when I don't offer."
Hermione shook her head. Professor McGonagall looked very seriously at her.
"I'm appointing you because you can handle it. The attention, the pressure, the responsibility. I'm appointing you because we all need Muggle Studies done right. I'm appointing you, frankly, because no one else is brave enough to take the job. It's the second week of July. You have seven weeks to prepare." Professor McGonagall's sudden smile made her look years younger. "Now, shall we talk compensation?"
Over her head, Professor Dumbledore winked.
-
Hermione gripped the sink with both hands, feeling her legs shake beneath her. She couldn't seem to take in enough oxygen. She wasn't entirely sure how she had made her way to the fourth-floor washroom. She was entirely sure that this would be the time her panic actually killed her. Her heart felt like it was trying to claw it's way out of her chest.
What had set this off? The job offer, yes, but also nothing, everything, the sight of her future unfurling before her, the letter that had never come, would never come-
"No," she said aloud to the echoing stalls. Chancing a glance in the mirror, she saw that her face was pale, her eyelashes glued together by unshed tears. She felt cold sweat trickle down her back.
"Breathe in for five seconds, hold for five seconds, breathe out for seven." She did this until she felt sensation return to the tips of her fingers.
She had a purpose now. She had a job to do. She could no longer indulge the aching void inside of her.
-
She was sitting at a table in the library, surrounded by precarious piles of books. Not even twenty-four hours earlier, she had finally admitted that most of the muggle related content in Hogwarts's library was hopelessly out of date, never mind borderline offensive. She had supplemented her piles with glossy new tomes from a muggle bookstore.
I should assign novels, she thought, one a year. And then there's television, that's important. I'll have to do electricity first. Sixth year? Seventh? Can I get a television to work here? Sports! Add sports to third year. That makes third year sports and culture and politics and-
"Slow down," Hermione said, louder than intended. Since she last surfaced, filaments of her hair had started to float about her head from constant contact with her nervous hands.
"Miss Granger," said a flat voice.
Hermione looked up and had to suppress a sympathetic flinch at the sight of Professor Snape. She had almost forgotten how drastically his appearance had gone downhill since the war.
All of the sneering affect he had possessed was gone. His skin, which had always tended towards sallow, now seemed bleached of pigment. Dark bruises were imprinted below his eyes.
"Professor Granger," she said firmly. It was difficult to be afraid of a man she had watched bleed out in a shack.
"A sentimental decision, no doubt." His voice was still the same as it had ever been, just as cold, just as insinuating. It had the effect of pinning her to the spot.
Hermione felt a hot flush of anger at his words. She sat up straighter.
"Excuse me?"
"A sentimental decision, as you are in no way qualified for the post in which you find yourself."
This was too far, and too close to the truth, to be allowed to stand.
"You may have gotten away with insulting me when I was your student, but don't think for a second you'll be able to treat me with that sort of disrespect these days. I am your colleague. You don't have to like it, you don't have to like me, but you will respect me."
Her voice was calm, but she had risen from her seat. Instead of attempting to gather up her sheaves of parchment and piles of books, she maintained steady eye contact with Snape. He would have to leave first.
Snape watched her for a long moment. With a hint of his old sour expression, he backed out of the Muggle Studies section of the library.
Hermione smiled to herself. She had been firm and assertive without overstepping. She looked down at her hands planted on the table, half in a sunbeam, half in shadow. They were perfectly still.