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Chapter Text

Hermione braces her hand against the wall as the train lurches to the right. Every year she forgets the sharp turn it makes at this point in the journey. Palm stinging, she continues down the aisle. She always has conflicted feelings stepping onto the Hogwarts Express on September 1st. It’s part excitement and elation and part worry about what You-Know-Who will throw at them this year. It being Harry’s—and her—final year at Hogwarts means there’s no doubt something big will happen. Her hands trail the sides of the aisle. Opening the door to the compartment, another lurch causes her to lose her balance. She falls forward with a cry but manages to steady herself on Ron’s shoulder, who is sitting closest to the door.

“Bloody hell, Hermione,” he says with a wince.

“Sorry!” Releasing her grip, she scoops Crookshanks from where he’s sleeping next to Ron and takes his place. Crooks makes a disgruntled sound but quiets down once he’s on her lap.

“Stop being so grumpy,” Ginny says with an eye roll.

“Stop snogging my best friend in front of me and I will.”

Hermione raises her eyebrows at Harry, whose cheeks turn pink. His relationship with Ginny is still a sore spot for Ron.

“We weren’t snogging.” Ginny’s voice is raised, and Harry tugs on her hand.

“Can you knock it off, please? Both of you,” he says.

Suppressing a smile, Hermione strokes the spot between Crookshanks’ ears.

“Did you read the Prophet this morning?” Harry continues. “Malfoy got ten years.”

“Blimey, ten years in Azkaban?”

Ginny flicks her hair over her shoulder. “I heard mum and dad talking. Dumbledore tried to get him a more lenient sentence, but the Wizengamot wouldn’t budge. I’m sure him being a Death Eater had something to do with that.”

Harry’s face twists in disgust. “He’s mad.”

“I understand why he did it,” Hermione says, crossing her legs and wincing when Crooks’ claws dig into her leg. “With a family like that Malfoy didn’t have much of a choice, did he?”

“You’re defending Malfoy?” Ron spits out the word.

“No,” Hermione draws out the word. “I’m just saying it can’t be easy going against what you’ve been raised to believe.”

“Sirius did.” Harry’s voice is quiet.

Hermione locks eyes with him. There’s a sadness there and a tiredness he’s too young to have. “I know. It was very brave of him.”

Sirius is still a sore topic for Harry. She knows he blames himself for what happened at the Department of Mysteries. Hermione rubs the scar on her chest.

“Malfoy deserves what he got,” Ron says. “I hope he shares a cell with his wanker dad.”

Hermione and Ginny share a look. Hermione has no warm feelings towards Malfoy—having him hate her mere existence and call her a Mudblood for the past five years will do that—but she pities him. She never would have thought him capable of attempted murder, and had Harry not been there underneath the invisibility cloak she might not have believed it. She doesn’t know what Dumbledore said to Malfoy to get him to lower his wand, and Harry hasn’t volunteered the information.

“I hope You-Know-Who can time whatever plan he has to murder Harry during the N.E.W.T.s,” Ron says and bites into a jelly slug.

“Ron!”

“What?” Ron takes another bite. “Harry will win, obviously.”

Harry snorts. “Thanks, mate.”

“I’m just saying”—he shakes another jelly slug out of the box and shoves it into his mouth—“since we know he’s going to try something it would be nice if he could do it during our exams.”

“You’d just have to take them on a different date,” Hermione says. “Maybe if you’d spent more time studying last year instead of snogging Lavender you would feel more prepared.”

Harry and Ginny snort.

Ron grins. “It was worth it. Besides, with your planning we’ll be prepared in no time.”

Hermione rolls her eyes but chuckles. “The next time you complain about my study schedule I’ll remind you of that.”

“I would never.”

The train decelerates as the view from the window changes from mountains and trees to buildings. Hermione lightly taps Harry’s shin with her foot and motions to the cat carrier in the overhead storage. Harry nods and stands to get it. Crookshanks hates the carrier with a fiery passion, so a certain level of sneakiness is required. Lifting him gently, she quickly puts him into the carrier and closes the latch. Fully awake now, Crookshanks hisses.

“I’m sorry, old man,” she coos and takes the carrier from Harry. “I’ll get you out as soon as I can.”

He swipes his paw at the latch.

-

Taking a seat at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, Hermione looks over at the high table. A familiar blonde sits between Professors Babbling and Flitwick, talking animatedly with the former.

“What’s Phlegm doing here?” Ginny asks, taking a seat next to Hermione.

Hermione adjusts her robes. “I’m guessing she’s one of our new professors.”

“Brilliant,” Ginny says with a grimace.

“Come off it.” Harry nudges her shoulder. “Fleur’s all right.”

Ginny huffs.

The doors to the Great Hall open, admitting Professor McGonagall and the group of first years following her like a brood of ducklings. It boggles the mind they used to be that small. The sorting is undramatic other than a girl tripping on her way to the stool and nearly taking three other students with her. Once all the students have been sorted and Professor McGonagall has taken her spot at the high table, the Headmaster stands. The noise quiets down when he raises his arms.

“I welcome you all to a new term at Hogwarts. Before the feast can begin; a quick announcement. Our dear Professor Slughorn has decided to retire from teaching, and so Professor Snape will take over the role of Potions professor.”

There’s scattered applause—mostly coming from the Slytherin table—and many murmurs from the students.

Ron snorts. “Snape must be fuming. His dream job just snatched away from him.”

“I wonder what made Dumbledore demote him. It’s too bad he didn’t get the sack outright.”

“Shut it, both of you,” Hermione hisses. She’s had enough of their petty dislike of Professor Snape.

“Furthermore,” Dumbledore continues, “I am pleased to announce that Fleur Delacour will be taking over teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts.”

There is more applause as Fleur stands and bows her head slightly. Hermione claps until her hands hurt. Glancing down the long table, she internally rolls her eyes at the blank look of adoration on many of the boys’ faces. Dumbledore announces the beginning of the feast, and the tables fill with food and drink.

“Look at Crabbe and Goyle,” Harry says under his breath, and both Ron and Hermione look over their shoulders.

The two Slytherins look lost without their leader, sitting silent and not engaging in the conversations around them.

Hermione looks back at Harry. “Don’t provoke them, Harry. They might be mindless buffoons, but their families are Death Eaters.”

“Spoilsport.” Ron reaches over to grab another Yorkshire pudding.

Conversations about the summer holiday continue through pudding—Hermione savours her lemon drizzle cake—and slowly ebb out when the remains of the food vanish.

“You all right there, mate?” Harry asks when they follow the rest of the students out of the Great Hall.

Ron groans and puts his hand on his stomach. “I ate too many custard tarts.”

When they climb through the Fat Lady’s portrait—the password was lobalug—Hermione stifles a yawn. She bids goodnight to the boys and goes upstairs to the dorm. Her trunk sits by the foot of her bed with the carrier perched on top of it. Crookshanks is making his displeasure known, and she hurries to let him out. Having regained his freedom, he swats Hermione’s hand and jumps down to explore the castle. As she’s setting her alarm, Lavender and Parvati enter the room.

Lavender gives a hesitant smile. “All right?”

Despite sharing a dorm for years they were never close, and Ron’s less than stellar breakup the previous term didn’t help matters much.

Hermione returns the smile. “Yeah, you?”

“I’m all right, thanks.” Lavender puts her toiletries bag on the foot of her bed. “Congratulations on Head Girl.”

“Thank you.” Hermione resists the urge to touch the badge. Her parents were beyond proud when it arrived along with her booklist a few weeks earlier. Things between them had been tense the past few months—a student attempting to murder the Headmaster was just the tip of the iceberg of things they found hard to swallow—but Head Girl was something they could understand. She can’t fault them for being worried; she’s put them through a lot during the past few years. After her injury at the Department of Mysteries, they had a big row and nearly didn’t let her come back to Hogwarts.

She’ll write them tomorrow, she decides as she gets into bed.

-

Their first class of the year is Defence Against the Dark Arts. Taking a seat at the front of the class, Hermione puts her textbook on the desk.

“It’s a bit different than having Snape for a teacher,” Ron says behind her, and she hears Seamus snort.

“She’s easier on the eyes, that’s for sure.”

“Oi, shut it,” Harry says. “She’s got more skills than you both put together.”

The door to the office opens, and Fleur—Professor Delacour—enters the classroom. Her sage robes give her an ethereal appearance, and Hermione can practically hear the boys lean forwards. She swallows a seed of bitter jealousy—no one’s ever looked at her like that—and folds her hands on the desk.

“Good morning class,” Professor Delacour says, looking over the room. Ron’s chair creaks when he straightens up. “I wish to know the level of your skills to better teach you. Please take out your wands and push the desks to the sides, then pair up.”

Standing, Hermione and Harry share a look.

Once a big space has been cleared in the centre of the room, Professor Delacour looks around. “Any volunteers to start?”

There’s silence, then Harry raises his hand. “We’ll go first.”

Hermione glares at him, but takes her place in the middle of the room. She adjusts the grip on her wand and squares her shoulders. Harry stands opposite, wand at his side. He gives her a reassuring smile.

“The aim is to disarm.” Professor Delacour says, looking between them. “You may use verbal and non-verbal spells, but do not injure each other.”

Someone snorts. Hermione takes a deep breath. Duelling isn’t her strong suit. Harry’s hand twitches. Her arm shoots up.

“Expelliarmus!”

The spell bounces off her shield charm, and she slashes a freezing hex through the air. It misses, and Harry ducks before casting Flipendo. Her shield trembles, but holds. Focusing on her magic, she conjures a flock of yellow birds and directs them at Harry.

“Aaarh!” He raises his hands to protect his face as the birds peck at his hair and glasses.

From the corner of her eye, Hermione sees Ron flinch. With a flick of her wrist, Harry’s wand sails through the air and into her hand. The wood is cool against her skin. She exhales shakily.

“Well done, both of you,” Professor Delacour says. “The next pair, s'il vous plait.”

Hermione and Harry step to the side of the room to join Ron.

“Here.” Hermione hands him his wand.

“Cheers.” He leans against the wall. “Those birds are bloody lethal.”

Ron snorts. “I’ll say.”

“I’ve already apologised for that,” Hermione says, tucking her wand up her sleeve.

“I know.” He nudges her shoulder and gives her the loopy Ron-grin that means there are no hard feelings.

There’s a loud bang, and the classroom gets shrouded in darkness. Hermione fumbles for Harry’s arm.

The sound of a hand against skin, then a loud cry. “What the fuck, mate?”

Professor Delacour says a French incantation. The darkness vanishes, showing Michael Corner holding his nose and Terry Boot with a wand in each hand.

“You said to disarm,” Terry says sheepishly.

The Professor sighs. “With magic, Mr Boot. Do you require medical assistance, Mr Corner?”

“Nah, I’m good.” Michael lowers his hand and snatches his wand from Terry.

“Good, good.” Professor Delacour looks around. “The next pair, please!”

Luckily the rest of the class understood the assignment better than Terry did, and no more acts of violence occurred.

-

“Do you think it’s too late to drop Potions?” Ron asks the next morning over breakfast, nose practically in his cup of tea.

“Yes.” Hermione hands him a piece of toast. “You need a Potions N.E.W.T to become an Auror, remember?”

“Maybe I don’t want to be an Auror anymore.” He takes a large bite of his toast and says something Hermione can’t make out.

“Pardon?”

“I can go work for Fred and George in the shop.”

“You wouldn’t last a week.” Harry pushes his glasses up his nose.

“I won’t last with Snape teaching either,” Ron complains. “He might not even let us be in the class, we only got an E on our O.W.Ls.”

“If that was the case, it wouldn’t be on your timetable,” Hermione points out. “I’m actually kind of happy Slughorn isn’t teaching us anymore, he was very biased.”

Ron snorts. “You’re just happy Harry hasn’t got the Prince’s book anymore so you can be at the top of the class.”

Hermione’s face burns. “That’s not true. Besides, don’t you remember what kind of spells were in that book?”

Harry pales slightly, and Hermione realises her mistake too late. Grabbing his book bag, Harry stands and hurries from the Great Hall. Fuck. The spell he used against Malfoy—Sectumsempra—is still a sore topic. She should know better.

“That was dumb.”

Hermione sighs. “Thanks, Ron. I’m aware.”

“I know what you were trying to say. The Prince is brilliant, but who knows what other kinds of spells were in there?” Ron checks his wristwatch. “We should get to class.”

Slinging her book bag over her shoulder, Hermione heads with Ron to the dungeons. The other N.E.W.T students are waiting outside the classroom door, and Hermione goes straight to Harry.

“I’m sorry,” she says low, brushing her shoulder against his. “I shouldn’t have-”

“It’s all right.” Harry grins. “Even with the Prince’s book, I doubt Snape would give me top marks.”

Hermione can’t disagree with that.

The door swings open, admitting the students. Hermione takes a seat at a desk near the back with Ron and Harry to her right. Taking out her parchment and quill, she looks at the dark form of Professor Snape at the front of the room. Dark and dour, he stands with his arms folded into his cloak as he waits for the class to settle down.

“The potions you will brew this year are laborious,” Snape says softly, black eyes surveying the room, “and will require your full attention. There is no room for idle chat in this classroom, and if you think yourself incapable of fully concentrating on the task at hand I advise you to leave my class now.”

No one so much as twitches. Hermione chews on the inside of her cheek. Snape always had a flair for the dramatics. His dark eyes meet hers for a second, and she resists the urge to straighten in her seat.

“The first potion you will attempt to brew this year is the Night Vision Potion. Who can tell me how this particular potion works?”

Hermione’s arm shoots in the air.

“Anyone?” Snape drawls, eyes sweeping over the class. “Mr Weasley!”

Ron jumps, and his knee hits the underside of the desk with a low thud. “Me?”

“You are, I assume, in possession of a functioning brain. What do you think is the purpose of the Night Vision Potion?”

Hermione slowly lowers her arm. She should know better than to expect Snape to call on her. Ron gives her a panicked look and she resists the urge to roll her eyes.

“It, uh, makes you see in the dark?”

“An astute deduction, Mr Weasley.” Snape sneers. “Miss Granger, no doubt you have something to add?”

She wets her lips. “The Night Vision Potion makes the eyes extremely sensitive to light and prolonged exposure to it while under the effects of the potion can cause irreparable damage.”

“Which is why,” Snape continues, “it’s extremely important to get the dosage right when using the potion.” Unfolding his arms from inside his robes, he points his wand at the blackboard. “You have ninety minutes. Use them well.”

The directions appear, and Hermione scans them quickly before going to the store room to get the ingredients.

Soon, the only sounds are the chopping of ingredients and the slow hiss of burners being turned on underneath cauldrons.

She carefully crushes the emerald pepper in her mortar. The instructions say to a coarse powder, which is trickier than expected. Lifting her pestle, she peers into the mortar. The emerald sheen of the powder makes it difficult to see the size of the granules. Grinding the peppers too finely will ruin the potion.

Next to her, Ron curses under his breath.

Deciding to risk it, Hermione puts the pestle down on the worktop and weighs out eight grams of the emerald pepper. Stirring anti-clockwise, she drops the powder into the cauldron. The potion immediately starts changing colour from a pale grey to a deep emerald green. Once there are no streaks of grey left, she stirs five times clockwise and then sets the stirring rod down. According to the instructions, the potion now needs to simmer for six minutes before it can be bottled. She twists to start cleaning up, and startles.

Standing too close behind her, Snape, seemingly unbothered by her reaction, peers into her cauldron. Holding her breath, she averts her eyes. Then he moves along without a word, and Hermione bites her bottom lip to stop herself from giggling gleefully. When it comes to Snape, she has learnt that no comments are the best ones; it means he can’t find any fault with her work. She glances at Ron’s cauldron. The potion is nearly black and gives off a smell of overripe tangerines.

“You have five minutes to finish your potions and bring a vial to my desk,” Snape says, taking a seat behind his desk. “For Friday’s class you will also write a sixteen inch essay about the uses and properties of the emerald pepper.”

Hermione copies the assignment into her planner and slides it into the book bag.

“Bloody hell, this is terrible,” Ron says. “Is it supposed to look like that?”

“No, mate.” Harry puts a ladleful of his potion—which is on the teal side of emerald green—into the vial.

“Bugger.” Ron turns to her. “Hermione, can I have some of your potion?”

She puts the stopper on her vial and marks it with her name. “No, Ron. That would be cheating.” Keeping a tight grip on her vial, she vanishes the contents of the cauldron with a wave of her wand. She slings her book bag over her shoulder and brings the vial to Snape’s desk, then waits by the door for the boys to finish.

When they leave the classroom, Ron gulps. “Do you really think it’s too late to drop Potions?”

Chapter Text

Leaning back in her seat, Hermione grimaces when her spine pops. The rain pelts against the library windows, as it has done for the past three days. Her planner lies open next to her on the table, showing each day filled with one or two entries of homework.

A frustrated noise comes from the person occupying the seat opposite her. “I’m still missing three inches on McGonagall’s homework,” Neville says dejectedly.

Ron puts his quill down. “Just make your handwriting bigger. But it’s a risky move; Flitwick commented on that when I handed in the assignment earlier.”

“I wouldn’t try it with McGonagall,” Harry says.

Hermione loves her friends dearly, but she wishes they hadn’t decided to join her for studying. There always ends up being more talking than studying, which was more tolerable when they didn’t have their N.E.W.T.s to worry about.

“I’ll be right back.” Standing, she palms the note Professor Vector wrote her after class earlier that day and goes to the checkout desk.

After looking suspiciously at the note, Madam Pince gives her access to the restricted section. Hermione goes past the dark arts section quickly—lingering will make the books start calling out to her—and around the corner to the small shelf of Arithmancy literature. Brow furrowed, she contemplates which volume would be best suited for her project. Finally deciding on one, she tucks it underneath her arm. Then a shimmery spine catches her eye. Curious, she pulls it from the shelf. There’s no title or author on either side of the navy iridescent cover. The spine cracks when she flips it open, like it hasn’t been read before. It’s a book on magical herbs and plants. Odd. What’s that doing in the restricted section? Curious, she puts it on top of the Arithmancy volume.

There’s still a lack of studying at the table when she returns, and Ginny has joined them. Great.

“Hi, Hermione,” she says, leaning against Harry’s chair. “Light reading?”

Hermione puts the books on the table and sits. “Arithmancy project. Are you joining us?”

“No, I’m just fetching Harry. He’s helping me with my Defence homework.”

Ginny has a better poker face than Harry; his ears go a deep shade of pink as he stands and gathers his things. Hermione chuckles. Ron is stubbornly looking at his parchment.

“Have fun,” Hermione says, making Harry look even more embarrassed and Ginny smirk.

Ron mutters something that sounds like, “unacceptable,” and turns a page in his textbook.

Hermione reaches for the Arithmancy book, but her eyes are drawn to the mystery book. Before she can second-guess herself, she’s flipped open the navy cover. It’s full of herbs and plants she’s never heard of: dew eve, acremon, peace sorrel. On the next page is an illustration of a white flower with five narrow petals and a dark vein down the centre. The stem is long with a cluster of three flowers. Whisper collard, the text says. Drawing her bottom lip between her teeth, Hermione starts reading.

The whisper collard has many magical properties in both its leaves and flowers, which it bears from the alder moon to the ivy moon. It prefers to grow in rich soil close to magical energy. Legend says that if a wizard or witch harvests the plant as their magic reaches maturity, their magic will grow stronger.

The alder moon and ivy moon? Hermione frowns. Trees don’t have moons. She reads it again. As the magic reaches maturity. That she does know; it was in a pamphlet all sixth years got from Madam Pomfrey along with—embarrassingly—a section about safe sex. A witch or wizard’s magic reaches maturity on their 18th birthday.

“Earth to Hermione?”

Blinking, she looks up. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

Ron closes his book. “Library’s closing.”

In a split decision, she makes a copy of the page before returning it to the shelf in the restricted section. There’s something about the whisper collard that makes her want to find out more.

-

The rain finally lets up by the weekend, and Hermione is coaxed from the library by Harry and Ron to join them by the lake. They’re not the only ones taking advantage of the nice weather; it seems half the school had the same idea. Hermione rolls the sleeves up on her jumper and shields her eyes with her hand. The Giant Squid is splashing its tentacles by the shore, much to the amusement of the group of first years sitting nearby. Finding more information about the whisper collard has become a bit of an obsession for her. With her birthday coming up the following week, she’d like to find out if the plant grows at or around Hogwarts.

“Any guesses who’s gonna try out for the Quidditch team?” Ron asks, pulling a strand of grass from the ground and wrapping it around his finger.

“Not a clue. Peakes said he wouldn’t stay on, but I’m not sure who else we’ll be replacing. Other than Katie Bell.”

“What about you, Hermione?” Ron says, nudging her calf with his foot. “You trying out for the team?”

Chuckling, Hermione shakes her head. “That might be the worst idea you’ve ever had.”

“I can think of a few worse ones,” Harry says. “Like asking Fleur to the Yule ball during the Triwizard Tournament.”

“Or eating ten mince pies last Boxing Day.”

Harry laughs. “Or the time when you—”

“Oi!” Ron interrupts. “Like you’re the bloody king and queen of good choices.”

Hermione laughs and turns her face towards the sun, eyes closing against the light. “Hardly.”

The continued discussion about Quidditch becomes a pleasant background noise as Hermione allows herself to relax. The breeze is chilly on her face but the sun is warm. She’s almost dozing off when a shadow blocks the sun.

“Hello, you three!”

She opens her eyes at the cheerful voice and smiles. “Hi, Hagrid. How are you?”

Hagrid smiles behind his bushy beard. “Can’t complain, can’t complain. Congratulations on becoming Head Girl. I knew they’d have to give it to you, there’s no one cleverer than our Hermione.”

“I would be offended, but I can’t argue with that,” Ron says.

“Hagrid,” Harry says tentatively. “What’s in your bag?”

“Oh, this.” Hagrid lifts his arm. The burlap sack he’s holding is stained a suspicious red at the bottom. “It’s foaling season for the Thestral herd that lives in the Forbidden Forest. The mums do a fantastic job but I still like to be there with some steaks for them. The foals need raw meat in the first hours after being born, to make them grow. I’m on my way there now.”

Harry grimaces slightly. “That’s...nice.”

Ron shudders. “Thestrals are bloody scary.”

“They’re harmless!” Hagrid protests. “And right clever, too.”

Ron looks like he wants to disagree.

“Hagrid,” Hermione starts, a thought brewing, “may I ask you a question about the Forbidden Forest?”

Hagrid nods. “Of course.”

“Have you heard about a plant called the whisper collard growing there?”

Hagrid’s brows knit together as he contemplates. “Whisper collard,” he repeats to himself. “Come to think of it, there might be a cluster of them growing near the Eastern border. The moonfillies enjoy eating the leaves.” He looks sternly at her. “You wouldn’t be thinking about trying to find it, would you? The Forbidden Forest is no place for students.”

“Of course not,” Hermione lies.

“You do best to keep out of trouble, with everything that’s going on,” Hagrid says. “I best be off, but you’ll pop around for some tea soon, I hope?”

They make plans for the following day, then Hagrid continues towards the Forbidden Forest. Hermione’s eyes follow his form until it disappears into the treeline.

-

During her free period before lunch on Wednesday, Hermione goes to the library and looks through every book on different kinds of calendars in search of references to the alder moon and ivy moon. She finally finds the answers she needs in a book on Paganism, which sets the blooming period as the middle of March to the end of October. That information, combined with Hagrid confirming the plant grows in the Forbidden Forest, makes Hermione form a plan.

They’re sitting in front of the fire in the common on the evening before her birthday when Hermione speaks. “Harry, could I ask you a favour?” At his nod, she continues, lower, “Could I borrow the cloak and map tonight?”

“Sure. Where are you going?”

“The Forbidden Forest.”

His brows lift to his hairline. “Because of that plant? Is that really a good idea?”

“Are you of all people trying to convince me not to break curfew?”

Harry chuckles and stands. “Fair enough. I’ll be right back.”

“Do you want us to come with?” Ron asks, eyes lighting up at the prospect of breaking school rules.

Hermione shakes her head. “We don’t all fit underneath the cloak anymore.”

“You sure about this? It isn’t like you to do things like this.” He grins. “You’re usually the one trying to talk us out of doing dumb stuff.” His freckled face scrunches up. “Does this mean I’m the responsible one? I don’t think I can take the pressure.”

Hermione pats his leg. “It’ll pass, I promise.”

When Harry comes back with the map and cloak, she hides them both in her book bag. Hermione feels jittery and nervous the rest of the evening, and by the time they say goodnight and head upstairs to the dorms she’s a nervous wreck. She sits fully dressed on her bed, the curtains drawn, and listens until Parvati and Lavender fall asleep. Crookshanks is off somewhere exploring the castle. When the only sound other than her shallow breathing is Parvati mumbling in her sleep, Hermione puts on the cloak and grabs the map and her wand.

“I solemnly swear I’m up to no good,” she whispers, and watches as the map unravels in front of her.

She looks at the tiny banners of names. Mrs Norris is prowling the fourth-floor corridor, Madame Pomfrey is in the Hospital Wing and the Headmaster paces the length of the Astronomy Tower. No one is near the Gryffindor Tower. Good. The common room is empty, and the dying embers in the fireplace crackle. The portrait creaks as it swings open, and Hermione flinches. Every sound seems too loud, and she casts a silencing charm on her shoes. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. It feels like she descends the flights of stairs to the entrance hall in one breath, glancing at the map every five seconds to make sure she won’t run into anyone.

It’s a relief when she makes it outside. The night is clear and cold with endless stars strewn across the inky black sky. Above the Forbidden Forest, the waning moon rises high. Hermione wets her dry lips. Hagrid said the plant grows on the Eastern border, near where the Moonfilly herd resides. She taps the map with her wand.

“Mischief Managed,” she says, voice no louder than a whisper, then folds the map and puts it in her bag.

Her wand lighting the way, she makes for the Eastern border. Her pulse thuds in her ears. She’s never been afraid of the dark, but the adrenaline makes her jump at every noise. The spindly trees sway slightly in the breeze. From deep inside the forest, something howls. Yellow eyes and a snarling snout flash before her eyes, and her chest tightens.

“Don’t be absurd,” she chides herself. “There are no werewolves in the Forbidden Forest, and even if there were it’s not a full moon.”

She stops by the edge of the forest. The trees grow dense together, as though to keep out unwanted visitors. It works: she doesn’t feel very welcome. Removing the cloak, she stuffs it into her bag with the map. It’s no use wearing it in the forest, it’ll only get caught on the vegetation. Taking a steadying breath, she steps into the forest. The air feels different; thick without being humid. Hermione raises her wand higher to see better. She still can’t see very far ahead, but she doesn’t want to risk more light. There might not be any werewolves in the forest, but there are still enough creatures that could do her harm. Her foot catches on something on the ground, and she stumbles forward. She braces her hand on a tree trunk. The impact stings her palm, and she winces.

“Good plan, Hermione. Fall and break your ankle in the Forbidden Forest where there are a dozen things that can eat you.”

Something rustles in a bush on her left. Turning towards it, she tightens her grip on her wand. Every defensive spell she knows runs through her mind. The noise stops. Hermione inhales deeply. She should just find the plant and get out of here. She checks her wristwatch. It’s fifteen minutes until midnight. She best get a move on. She tries to stay close to the border—that’s where Hagrid said the plant would be—but without realising it, the light from the castle disappears from her view.

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. The terrain gets more impregnable, tearing at her hair and clothes.

She stops and pushes frizzy curls from her face. A few metres ahead by the base of a gnarly tree is a clump of white flowers. Well, fuck. She actually found it. She approaches it slowly, half-expecting the plant to vanish into thin air when she gets close. The sound of footsteps breaks the silence. Hermione holds her breath. It doesn’t sound like Hagrid’s steps. She tightens the grip on her wand. She should use a stunning spell. No, a Protego. The footsteps get closer. Hermione backs closer to the tree, wand lifted and heart pounding. A tall, black form pushes out from the foliage to her left. The light from their wand is bright, and she raises a hand to shield her eyes from it. When the light dims she lowers her hand and locks eyes with the person now standing a bit away from her.

Professor Snape’s pale face is livid. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing here, Granger?”

Hermione can’t breathe. Her mouth opens, then closes. She has no excuses, nothing to say for herself. Of all the teachers to find her at midnight in the Forbidden Forest, it had to be him. “I’m sorry, sir!” her voice comes out as a squeak.

“Fifty points from Gryffindor and detention for a month,” he says, voice dangerously low. “I will also recommend to the Headmaster that you be stripped of your Head Girl privileges.”

Her eyes burn and her throat closes up. She won’t let him see her cry.

He raises his wand higher, throwing dark shadows over his face. “Now get a move on before I give you detention for the rest of term.”

Hermione’s wristwatch gives a low beeping sound. It’s midnight. She wets her dry lips. “Sir, if I could just—”

In the blink of an eye, Snape is close enough that she can see the purple marks underneath his eyes and the faint stubble on his cheeks. She moves back in reflex and steps onto something crunchy. She looks down, and her stomach drops. The plant! Her trainer has flattened it completely. It was all for nothing.

“Miss Granger—” Snape trails off, eyes following hers.

The leaves around her trainer are turning a bright shade of blue. Hermione lifts her foot. The plant lets out a high-pitched hiss, then explodes a bright blue powder all over them. She coughs as the powder goes into her mouth and nose. It tastes earthy, like breathing in a pile of dirt. That can’t be good.

Snape looks as shocked as she feels. Some of the blue powder is stuck on his eyebrows. Then his face turns from shock to fury. “Follow me,” he bites out through clenched teeth.

Hermione wishes the ground would open up and swallow her whole.

Chapter Text

Hermione struggles to keep up with Snape’s long strides as she follows him out of the forest and towards the castle, but she isn’t going to let him know that. She’s in enough trouble as it is. The bobbing light from his wand reminds her of a deep sea creature. Which makes her the prey. She swallows the lump in her throat. When they’re halfway across the lawns, something bright and fairly large shoots out of Snape’s wand and moves towards the castle. If this was any other time she would be curious what kind of animal Snape’s Patronus is, but the humiliation of her first detention since her first year is all she can think about.

Once inside the entrance hall, she expects Snape to send her back to the Gryffindor Tower with a scathing remark she’ll cry over when she’s alone in bed, but he makes for the grand staircase. Sweet Merlin, he’s going to escort her back to the common room like a child. He still hasn’t said a word since they left the forest. Hermione sniffles. They don’t meet as much as a ghost on their ascension, but she feels many painted eyes watching. The news will be all over the castle by the morning. Her stomach turns. What if Professor Dumbledore takes her Head Girl badge away?

Reaching the seventh floor corridor, Snape goes to the right. Confused, Hermione follows. This isn’t the way to the common room. Where are they go—oh no. Snape stops in front of a stone gargoyle.

“Pear drop,” he says through clenched teeth, and the gargoyle moves side to reveal a winding spiral staircase.

Their steps echo on the stone stairs. Hermione feels her future slip away from her when Snape opens the wooden door at the top of the stairs.

Professor Dumbledore sits behind his desk, wearing a dark blue dressing gown. Hermione hasn’t had many interactions with him without Harry and Ron present, and she wishes she’d let them come along tonight. At least she would be facing the punishment with them.

“Good evening Severus, Miss Granger,” he says, as though they’re just popping around for a cup of tea. “What can I do for you?”

Snape sneers. “Miss Granger thought it prudent to sneak out to the Forbidden Forest tonight.”

There are murmurs and gasps from the portraits lining the walls.

Dumbledore’s disapproving eyes meet hers. “That is both surprising and disappointing to hear, Miss Granger. I thought you had more sense than that.”

Fuck. She will never forgive herself if she loses her Head Girl title three weeks into term. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“A Head Girl sneaking into the Forbidden Forest?” comes the shocked voice from a portrait of a very old wizard. “In my days that would be grounds for expulsion.”

Her breath hitches. Snape huffs.

“Things have changed since you were Headmaster, Amrose,” Dumbledore says. “What were you doing in the Forbidden Forest, Miss Granger?”

“The stupid girl went looking for the whisper collard,” Snape says, running a hand through his lank hair. “It activated, Albus.”

A chill runs through Hermione’s sternum at the Headmaster’s worried face. She has the feeling something is going on that she is the only one not privy to.

Dumbledore removes his glasses and rubs his eyes before putting them back on with a sigh. “This conversation doesn’t leave this room.” He raises his gaze to the portraits lining the walls. “This includes you too. What I’m about to say is too important to be shared with anyone.” The portraits nod and agree. “Miss Granger,” Dumbledore continues. “What do you know about the whisper collard?”

Hermione glances at Snape, who is staring blankly ahead. She shares about what she read in the book in the restricted section and going into the forest to find the plant. When she’s finished, she takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry, sir, but why are you asking me about this? Aren’t you going to punish me for breaking school rules?”

“This is a more serious matter than your school record, you foolish girl,” Snape snarls. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“Severus,” Dumbledore warns.

Snape spins and walks over to the fireplace, where he rests his hands on the mantle and bows his head. Hermione blinks. She’s seen him angry before in class, tongue acerbic for whoever incurred his wrath, but seeing him so agitated feels inappropriate, as if she’s intruding on something private.

“I don’t understand,” she says, barely louder than a whisper.

Snape turns around, black eyes furious and lips curled into a sneer. “If you had bothered to do the research you pride yourself on, you would know the whisper collard is used in soul magic and creating soul bonds. Soul bonds that are formed when you crush the plant under a waning gibbous moon. Sound familiar, Miss Granger?”

“Severus!”

Hermione gasps, Snape’s words echoing in her mind. Soul magic. Soul bond. Soul bond. “Soul bond?”

“I think you both should sit down.”

Snape’s black eyes bore into hers, almost manic in their rage. Then he moves away and sinks into one of the armchairs by the desk. Barely breathing, Hermione follows his example. There must be some mistake.

“I’m afraid not, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore says, shaking Hermione from her panic and making her realise she’s spoken aloud. “When you accidentally activated the plant, you created a soul bond between yourself and Professor Snape.” Dumbledore’s shoulders drop slightly, making him look older than she’s ever seen him. “You are no doubt aware of the role Professor Snape plays in the war against Lord Voldemort, which means the soul bond puts him in greater danger than before. I cannot stress the importance of finding a way to break it.”

She might vomit. “There isn’t currently one?”

“Not that I am aware of. Soul bonds aren’t common, Miss Granger. I’ve read of only a handful successful soul bonds being made in the last century.”

“How can we tell the soul bond was successful this time? I don’t feel any different than before.” Hermione has to ask, but she has a suspicion she’s not going to like the answer.

Snape scoffs. “Perhaps the explosion of blue pollen escaped your notice, Granger. That’s how we know the soul bond was successful.”

“It didn’t,” Hermione snaps. She’s exhausted and scared and has had enough of being spoken to like a child. “But apart from the obvious, you seem to have more information about this than I do, and I’d rather like to know what to expect from having my soul bonded with one of my teachers!”

“We don’t know the full extent of the soul bond, which is why it’s important you find a cure,” Dumbledore says, voice firm.

“I’ll try to schedule it in during my thirty minutes of free time between four and four-thirty in the morning,” Snape sneers.

“I meant both of you.”

“What?” They say in unison.

Dumbledore steeples his fingers underneath his chin. “Miss Granger is one of the cleverest students we’ve seen in years, I’m sure she’ll be invaluable help. You have a few free periods, have you not?”

“Yes, sir.”

He sits back in his chair. “It’s settled, then.”

Snape shoots up from the chair and storms out of the office. The door slamming shut makes Hermione flinch.

“You’ll have to excuse Severus, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore says. “He is, more than any of us, under a great deal of pressure at the moment. I think it’s time for you to go back to your common room. It is rather late.”

“Of course, sir.” Hermione stands. “Goodnight.”

“Oh, and Miss Granger.” He fixes her with a stern look. “I meant it when I said this information doesn’t leave this room.” There’s an underlying warning to his voice that makes her chest constrict.

Hermione nods solemnly. “I understand.”

As she climbs through the portrait hole, the mantle clock chimes once. Oh. In the horror of detention and being soul bonded with her teacher, she forgot what day it is. Her eyes water. What a start to her birthday.

-

Hermione wakes up early the next morning with a pounding headache. Crookshanks is curled up next to her ribcage, snoring softly. When she sits, her foot bumps against something solid. Looking at the foot of the bed, she’s surprised to see a small pile of presents. The landscape outside the windows is still cloaked in darkness, and she makes her way blindly out in the hallway to the bathroom. The shower doesn’t help her headache, nor does it make her forget the events of last night. She pulls her half-dried curls into a ponytail and gets dressed before making her way downstairs to the common room.

“Happy birthday, Hermione!”

She is greeted with warm hugs from both Harry and Ron and squeezes them tightly.

“How did it go last night?” Harry asks when they climb out of the portrait hole.

Fuck. What is she going to say? “I didn’t get a chance to find it.” A half truth, it is. “Snape caught me as I was going into the forest. I’ve got detention for a month.”

“You got detention?” Ron’s voice is loud enough to catch the attention of other students going down to breakfast, and her cheeks grow warm.

“Thank you, Ronald.”

Hermione’s stomach knots into nerves when they get to the Great Hall. She stubbornly keeps her gaze away from the high table until she’s seated, then chances a glance. Snape’s not there. His comment about the thirty minutes of free time comes to mind. Which begs the question, what was he doing in the Forbidden Forest last night in the first place?

The owls swoop in with the morning post, and one of the postal owls lands precariously close to her blueberries. She removes the rolled up letter and gives the owl a bit of her muesli. Her name is written on the envelope in her mother’s handwriting. She sips her orange juice while reading the letter. Other than the birthday wishes there are updates on life in the three weeks since she left. Her dad sprained his ankle putting boxes into the loft and is being a difficult patient. Mrs Meade from down the road passed away, and a new tea room opened on the High Street. Her mother spends a paragraph gushing over the cakes and tarts. Hermione smiles at these snippets of home.

A nudge on her shoulder. “Can you pass me the marmalade?”

Lowering the letter, Hermione hands the jar to Ron. Something dark catches her eye, and when she looks towards the high table she sees the back of Snape’s form as he leaves the Great Hall. Her appetite vanishes. In the minutes it took her to read the letter, her predicament slipped her mind, but seeing him brought it all back. Through the rest of breakfast and her Ancient Runes class, she feels nauseated with nerves. Potions is her next class and she’s no idea what to expect. She knows he can be vindictive and cruel, but hopefully she won’t be on the receiving end of it. Her heart is in her throat when they enter the classroom and take their seats. As it turns out, her fears are ungrounded: Snape barely looks at her for the full hour. When she gathers her things at the end of the class, her luck runs out.

“Miss Granger,” his voice cuts through the air. “A word.”

Ron grimaces. “Good luck.”

Harry looks worried. “Do you want us to wait outside?”

“No, that’s all right. See you at lunch.”

Taking a calming breath, Hermione steps up to Snape’s desk. He’s writing something on a piece of parchment and doesn’t look at her until the last student has left the room. With a wave of his wand, the classroom door slams closed.

“A potion is our best chance to break the soul bond,” he says matter-of-factly. “I would prefer to work on the cure myself, but our esteemed Headmaster has a point. My schedule does not allow me to take on the full burden, and seeing as you got us into this mess in the first place...”

“I know it means nothing, but I truly am sorry, sir,” Hermione says. “If I’d have known—”

“You’re right, your concession means nothing. We’ll do our research and brewing in my private lab. I assume I do not have to tell you to not breathe a word of its location nor the brewing I conduct in it to anyone?”

“No, sir.”

Snape tears off a piece of the parchment in front of him and hands it to her. “I want you to check out the book about the whisper collard you found in the restricted section; it might help us determine how to invent the cure.”

Hermione puts the note in her pocket and clears her throat. “What will I tell people if they ask what I’m doing when we are researching?”

“We have the four weeks of your detention as a start, then we’ll sort something out. Tuesday, 7 o’clock. Don't be late.”

It’s a clear dismissal, and Hermione leaves the classroom.

The Great Hall is lively, and she takes the seat next to Harry before reaching for the bowl of mashed potatoes.

“What did he want?” Harry asks, putting down his goblet.

“Detention stuff. Can you pass me the gravy, please?”

“You got detention?” Ginny asks, red brows rising to her hairline.

“Yes, I did.” Hermione pours gravy over her mashed potatoes. “Can we change the topic, please?”

She grimaces. “Sorry. Just surprised, that’s all.”

Hermione realises too late her mash is now swimming in gravy. Just lovely.

-

By Tuesday morning, Hermione realises she doesn't know where the Potion Master's private lab is. Seeing as he only gave her a time, she assumes he means to meet her by the classroom. She barely touches her dinner and shoots Ron a dirty look when he makes a quip about her detention. She spent the majority of the weekend in the library, reading every book she found about soul magic and soul bonds. Not surprisingly, she didn’t find much. The things she did find all had a non-optimal consensus: a soul bond can only be broken by death, which will in turn cause the death of the other person in the bond.

At five minutes to seven, she stands outside the classroom. From somewhere close by comes the sound of dripping water. She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. Maybe she should have double checked where detention would be held.

The door slams open, showing the Potions Master. He looks down his hooked nose at her, then says, “Follow me.” He leads her to a part of the dungeons she’s never been in before, then stops in a dead-end corridor. Snape points to a large painting of an underwater scene—which is the only thing in this corridor other than the walls. “Behind this painting is a shortcut to the corridor off the entrance hall. It would be wise to use this instead of going through the main dungeons.”

He says nothing more, but Hermione can fill in the blanks: it’s not safe for a Muggle-born, especially her, to be seen in these parts of the dungeons.

“Take out your wand.”

She does, and he touches the tip of it with his wand before saying an incantation she doesn’t recognise. Her wand glows orange for a second before returning to normal.

“See this brick?” Snape points to a brick that’s slightly greener in tone than the rest. He taps his wand in a pattern on the bricks, and they rearrange themselves to form an archway. “I added your wand to the wards, you may come and go as you wish. Within reason,” he adds with a glare.

Hermione nods. “Of course, sir.”

At his nod, she goes ahead of him into the room. It’s a similar size to the potions classroom, with rows of worktops. One wall has a large cabinet with glass doors, where every size and material cauldron imaginable sits, waiting to get used. There’s a plain wood door on the far wall, flanked by wooden cabinets full of potions ingredients.

“This is my private lab, and I expect you to respect my rules and my research,” Snape says. “Despite your choice of friends, you are slightly less idiotic than your classmates and so I will make the decision to trust you. Don’t make me regret it.”

Hermione squares her shoulders. “Since we’re going to work together for the foreseeable future, I would appreciate it if you didn’t insult me.”

Snape raises a black brow, and she resists the urge to lower her gaze. “All right,” he says, then gives her a tour of the lab.

She’s so surprised he didn’t chew her out she almost forgets to listen. On the worktop closest to the back door sits a large cloche with the whisper collard inside. Hermione shivers.

“We might need to study its properties for the cure, but I do not feel like acquiring another soul bond.”

“Me either.” Studying the plant, Hermione tilts her head. “I went to the library to try to find information about what to expect with the soul bond. I didn’t find much.”

“My research has proved equally fruitless,” Snape says. “You’d think there would be more information about soul bonds, but I suppose accidental ones aren’t the most common.”

“Lucky us.” Stepping back from the cloche, Hermione looks at him. “Where do you suggest we start, sir?”

Snape nods to a pile of books on the desk on their right. “I haven’t had the time to look through those properly yet. Did you bring the book?”

Taking it from her book bag, she hands him the book that started all this trouble. The navy cover gleams innocently. “I’ll start with one of yours.”

The top book is a copy of Moste Potente Potions. Flipping through the pages, Hermione barely looks twice at the gruesome potions described. It’s a stark difference from when she brewed Polyjuice Potion in the girls’ lavatory: she dreamt about some of the potions for weeks. What a difference a few years can make.

Chapter Text

Hermione taps her wand in the familiar pattern over the bricks and stands back as they rearrange themselves into an archway. Snape is already in the lab setting up a cauldron—pewter, smaller than standard size. When the bricks close themselves behind her, she clears her throat.

“Are we brewing today, sir?”

He sets a glass and a steel stirring rod next to the cauldron. “We are.”

She hangs her robe on the hook by the door and glances at him, then looks away and hopes her face isn’t as pink as it feels.

“Can I help prepare the ingredients?” Her eyes flicker to his again.

“Granger,” he says, voice irritable. “When I checked this morning I had not grown warts nor, regrettably, the ability to turn people into stone with my glare. Is there a reason you can’t look at me?”

Her face grows warm. “I, uh, found out about a side effect of the soul bond.” She pauses and searches for the right words. “I had a dream last night,” she continues, looking at a spot over his left shoulder, “about You-Know-Who.”

She sees him flinch from the corner of her eye.

“How do you know the dream wasn’t a product of your own mind?” His voice is low.

Her eyes flicker to his. “I just knew. It felt… different. Like it didn’t quite fit in my mind.”

“I see.” Snape straightens his shoulders. “I expect your discretion should this happen again, and you have mine as well.”

The corner of her mouth tugs upwards. “Deal, sir. Let’s hope the cure works so we won’t have to use that discretion.”

She’s fairly sure she hears him mutter, “I bloody well hope so,” as he turns to the cabinet to fetch the ingredients. Tying her hair back, Hermione joins him.

“The potion only needs to brew for an hour at this stage of the process?” she asks, taking the jar of powdered asphodel roots from the shelf.

“Yes.” Snape reaches over her head for a jar of slimy brown liquid—Agaricus Cort mucus, poisonous in large doses. “By then we’ll know if the potion base is viable or not.”

The ingredients are all put on the worktop, and Hermione reaches for a cutting board. “Do you want me to cut or measure?”

Snape regards her in a way that makes her feel like a sheep auctioned off at a fair. “You can slice the ecanel roots. They need to be two millimetres thick. Do you think you can manage that?”

“I’m confident with my knife skills, sir,” Hermione says and turns towards the knife drawer.

“You need to use a steel knife; silver will contaminate the potion.”

“I know. Sir,” she adds the honorific at his raised eyebrow.

“Correct.” Snape measures out a teaspoon and a half of powdered asphodel roots and adds it to the cauldron.

They work in silence. After slicing the ecanel root, Hermione moves to the next ingredient on the list. This is the third week of her detention and after some trial and error they have a recipe to try for the soul bond cure that Snape is fairly confident will work. If things like the dream she had last night are going to keep happening she really hopes it does.

The potion is bubbling away, the colour resembling an almost healed bruise. Snape lifts the stirring rod and sets it aside. Hermione hands him the sliced ecanel root, which is the last ingredient at this phase of the brewing process. They share a look, and Hermione hardly dares breathe. Snape carefully drops the ecanel root into the potion, which gives off a low sound, then picks up the stirring rod. The moment it touches the surface of the potion, it shatters in his hand.

Crying out, Hermione moves backwards and trips over a stool, sending it to the floor with a loud noise. Snape lets out a string of curses and clutches his left hand. Blood drips onto the worktop and the stone floor. Still holding his left hand to his chest, Snape strides over to the sink. Hermione peers into the cauldron. The potion has gone the colour and texture of black pudding. She grimaces. She looks at Snape, who is inspecting his bleeding left hand.

“Are you all right, sir? Do you need any assistance?”

“I’ll be fine,” he bites out. “I’m more concerned about what caused that reaction.”

Hermione vanishes the congealed potion. “Back to the drawing board, I suppose.” She grabs the upturned stool and shoves it underneath the worktop. “Are you sure you’re all right, sir? Do you want me to call for Madam Pomfrey?”

“What I want is for you to stop your meddling.” He wraps a bandage around his hand. “Go back to your common room. We won’t get any more work done here tonight.”

She hesitates but decides it’s no use arguing with him. Not if she wants to make next week her last detention.

-

When the bricks close behind her, Severus lets out a pained hiss. There are still tiny steel shards embedded in his hand, and the pain is getting worse by the second. A visit to Poppy is necessary, it seems. He checks the cauldron. Granger vanished the failed results of their research. He’s not had any reaction like that from those ingredients before. Severus frowns. It could be something as simple as a speck of dust in the cauldron, the wrong kind of stirring rod or an ingredient past its due date. He’ll have to research that later on. For now, he needs the hospital wing.

The bandage is almost entirely soaked in blood, and he wraps another one around his hand before leaving the lab. The dungeons are cold, making the skin on his arms pebble. Fucking Granger for putting him in his position. Why did the stupid girl have to go looking for the whisper collard? A soul bond… Severus snorts. That’s just his luck. As if he didn’t have enough things going on.

The Hospital Wing is dark and empty—it’s too early in the term for any serious maladies—with a sliver of a light coming from the Matron’s office. It grows larger when the door opens fully, and Poppy comes into view.

“Severus, what brings you here?” She looks him over, and her eyes stop at his hand. “My boy, what have you done to yourself?” Hurrying to him, she leads him to a bed while turning the light on with a flick of her wand.

Severus sits and winches when Poppy pulls his hand towards her. “I assure you, it wasn’t intentional.”

“I should hope not.” She peels away the layers of bandages wrapped around his hand. “You need to be more careful, Severus.”

The sleeves of his frock coat and shirt are stained with blood, and Poppy moves them up his forearm to get better access to his hand. The tail of the Dark Mark peeks out from below the fabric, and Severus turns his face away. Poppy keeps chastising him but he only listens with half an ear. The pain of her pulling the remains of his favourite stirring rod from his flesh keeps him occupied well enough. Once they’re all gone, she seals the wounds with a healing charm.

Poppy pats his arm. “All done. I want you to use a salve for the scarring.” She looks at him sternly. “I need your word you’ll use it, Severus.”

Standing, he pulls his sleeve down. “I will, you meddling woman.” He buttons his sleeve as Poppy hurries away to get the potion and the salve, then looks at his hand. There are more than two dozen small scars on his palm and fingers, still red against his pale skin. Pain shoots through him when he flexes his hand.

Poppy hands him a vial. “For infection.” When he gives it back to her empty, she gives him a small jar. “Twice a day for the next three days should heal the scarring completely.”

“Thank you, Poppy.” Severus pockets the jar and stands. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

“Take care of yourself, boy.” Poppy tsks. “You are far too reckless with your well-being, always have been.”

“Just keeping you busy.”

After saying goodnight, Severus leaves the Hospital Wing and makes his way back to the dungeons. Because it’s close to curfew he checks the corridors and alcoves his students are most likely to dawdle in, but there’s no one there. Satisfied that all Slytherin students are either in the common room or wise enough not to get caught, he heads back to his quarters to figure out why the stirring rod exploded.

-

“If anyone needs assistance with transfiguring their toadstools back into toads, come forwards to the desk, please,” McGonagall says, sweeping back to the front of the room.

Hermione glances at Neville’s green-legged toadstool before he scoops it up and follows McGonagall. She taps her wand to her toadstool and it turns back into a toad. It gives a croak and attempts to jump down from the desk, but she catches it and brings it over to the glass terrarium containing the rest of the toads for the class.

“Hermione, does this look right to you?” Ron says, holding his toad towards her. It has a reddish tint and faded white spots.

“Here.” Hermione taps it quickly with her wand, and the traces of its toadstool life disappear.

“Cheers.” He sets his toad beside hers. “The first Quidditch practice is after dinner. Want to watch?”

“Tempting, but I have homework.” She gets her bag from her chair. His face has fallen slightly, and guilt gnaws in her stomach. “But you can tell me about it afterwards?”

Ron smiles. “All right.”

After a quick dinner, the boys and Ginny go down to the Quidditch Pitch and Hermione heads to the library. Four students stand just outside the library doors, blocking the entrance. Hermione inwardly groans. She stops in front of them and clears her throat.

“Could you move, please? You’re blocking the door,” she says, forcing a friendly tone onto her voice.

Pansy Parkinson looks at her with disdain. “We’re talking, Mudblood. You’ll have to wait.”

One of her minions snicker. Hermione squares her shoulders. Six years of being called that has made the word lose its power.

“Five points from Slytherin, Parkinson, and if you don’t move I’ll make it ten.”

Pansy meets her glare for a few seconds, then steps aside. Moving past, Hermione half-expects a spell to hit her in the back but it doesn’t come. They’re all talk, it would seem. Hoisting her bag higher on her shoulder, Hermione makes her way towards her favourite table.

Lavender waves her hand. “Hermione, over here!”

Madam Pince appears between two bookcases and shushes them. When she’s not looking, Lavender rolls her eyes.

“Do you want to study with us?” Parvati asks.

Oh. Hermione can probably count on one hand the times the three of them have hung out during the past six years. Not because of any ill-will, but they never asked and neither did she.

So she smiles and says, “Sure,” before taking the empty seat next to Parvati.

“McGonagall’s class was hard today,” Lavender says. “I swear my toadstool croaked.”

“It did.” Parvati flips a page in her book. “It was bloody creepy.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me if there were a species of magical toadstool that could.”

Lavender snorts. “Imagine being out for a nice walk in the forest and hearing the mushrooms croak. I’d think I’d gone mad.”

Taking out her books, Hermione chuckles at the imagery. “Me too.”

Studying with Parvati and Lavender is different from studying with the boys: no talk of Quidditch, no Ron trying to make her give her the answers. Instead there’s discussions about metallic eyeshadow and the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend. It’s not the most productive study session she’s had, but Hermione doesn’t mind.

-

Rain drips down Severus’ nose and coats his person, but he makes no move to conjure an umbrella. Sneering, he yanks the mask from his face and shoves it into the pocket of his travel robe before striding towards the castle. He wishes he could set Fiendfyre on the bloody thing; he would enjoy that immensely. The Dark Lord’s paranoia is getting tiresome and he’s no closer to finding out what the final plans for Potter are. Severus rolls his shoulders. Albus is convinced the Dark Lord will strike before the school year is out and Severus is inclined to agree with that.

The door to the entrance hall gives a low groan when he pulls it open. The temperature inside the castle is barely different from outside. He waves his wand over his robes, muttering a drying charm, which helps some with the cold and weariness.

“Good evening, Professor.”

Severus turns towards the voice. “It’s after curfew, Miss Granger,” he says, tucking his wand back up his sleeve. “I hope this isn’t becoming a habit of yours.”

“Just finishing my Head Girl duties,” Granger says. “What brings you outside on a night like this? The weather’s ghastly.”

“My duties,” he replies, and enjoys the way Granger’s eyes widen slightly when she catches his meaning.

“Is that what you were doing when—” she catches herself, lowers her voice, “in the Forbidden Forest?”

“Yes. I was on my way back when I saw your Lumos.”

Granger grimaces. “Sorry.”

Severus starts towards the grand staircase. Much to his chagrin, Granger follows. That she seems to have lost some fear of him during the past weeks is regretful. As far as he knows, she hasn’t been privy to any more of his dreams—not that he’d like to know if she did—and he has thankfully been spared any of hers so far. He hopes they will break the soul bond before that happens.

They’re on the sixth-floor landing when she speaks. “Did you find out what caused the stirring rod to shatter?”

“No. I need to examine the ingredient properties more to know for sure, and then modify the recipe.”

“Can I help?”

Severus stops—they’ve reached the place where they go their separate ways.

“It’s my soul too,” she adds quietly.

He hates to admit she’s right. She’s proved useful in creating the soul bond cure so far: what she lacks in creativity she makes up for in sheer stubbornness.

“All right,” he says, already regretting the decision at seeing her face light up. “Now go back to your common room before I give you detention again.”

Her mouth widens into a cheeky grin. “Goodnight, Sir.”

Severus watches until she rounds the corner then heads towards the Headmaster’s office. He squares his shoulders as the stone gargoyle comes into sight. After saying the password—Acid Pops—he is granted entry.

“I have no news,” Severus says as a greeting, sinking into the armchair in front of the desk. “The Dark Lord sprouted paranoid nonsense for an hour, Bellatrix offered to kill Potter and that was that.”

Dumbledore frowns. “Do you think Tom means to strike soon?”

“There are no plans set in motion yet. I’ll try to find out more during the next meeting, but I’ve got to be careful. Bellatrix is convinced that I’m a traitor and I’m sure she’s letting the Dark Lord know exactly how she feels.”

“We’ll have to make sure you stay in his good graces.” Tilting his head, Dumbledore ponders. “What about Narcissa Malfoy? Can she be an ally to us?”

Severus is shaking his head before Dumbledore has finished speaking. “The Malfoys have fallen out of the Dark Lord’s favour, and if she didn’t hate me we could use that to our advantage. She blames me for what happened to Draco.”

“She is wrong to do so,” Dumbledore says sternly. “You did what you could to help young Malfoy in his impossible task.”

Severus snorts. “Short of killing you myself I don’t see how I could have helped. But feelings aren’t logical.”

“No, I daresay they are not. How is the research for the soul bond progressing?”

“Not as well as I would hope.”

“You are letting Miss Granger help you, I hope?” Dumbledore gives him a pointed look. “You know as well as I do she’s a brilliant girl.”

“Stop your meddling, old man.” Severus stands. “If there’s nothing else, Headmaster?”

“No, nothing else. Get some sleep, Severus.”

Bowing his head, Severus sweeps from the room. He has a stack of papers on Flobberworm Mucus to mark for tomorrow’s class as well as a double batch of Pepper Up to brew for Poppy. He doubts he’ll get much sleep tonight.

Chapter Text

“We’re going to Hagrid’s after breakfast,” Ron says, voice muffled slightly by his toast.

“I can’t, I’ve got to study.” Hermione doesn’t like the way the lie twists her insides.

“But it’s Saturday!” Harry protests. “You are ahead in every one of your classes, can’t you blow off studying just today?”

She hates lying to them, but what choice does she have? “Arithmancy project. How about we do something this afternoon?”

“We’ve got Quidditch practice.” Harry nudges her shoulder. “Tonight?”

Hermione nods. “Yes, tonight.” She glances at the High Table, where a certain Potions Master is absent. He never gave her a time when they would start brewing. Maybe he’s in the lab waiting for her already. She finishes her tea and stands. “I need to get started. Say hi to Hagrid for me.”

“Bye Hermione.”

She heads for the corridor off the entrance hall. It contains only a door to a broom closet and another that hides a spiral staircase to the dungeons. It’s the route she’s been taking to Snape’s lab, heeding his warning about wandering the dungeons. When the bricks move aside, the archway doesn’t reveal an irritable Potions Master in the middle of research, but a quiet and empty room. She hasn’t been in there alone before, and she tries to shake the feeling that she’s doing something she shouldn’t. Not knowing how long her solitude will last, Hermione makes the most out of exploring the cabinets containing ingredients and the stack of books on the desk. Lifting the copy of Hagger’s Brews, she sees a leather-bound notebook half-hidden underneath papers and books. Her fingers itch to open it.

Behind her, a door slams.

Hermione jumps, clutching the book to her chest. “Hello, Professor.”

Snape arches a brow. “Granger.”

Chuckling, she puts the book back on the desk. “Should we get started?”

He moves past her and reaches for a piece of parchment on the desk. “There is a new variation to the first part of the potion I’d like to try. Hopefully with less volatile results than last time.”

Her eyes flicker to his hand, which bears faint scars of the misfortune of earlier that week. “What are we doing differently today?”

“We’re switching to a copper cauldron,” Snape says, putting said cauldron on the worktop.

“I thought we ruled that out because of the mallowsweet leaves?”

“We did, which is why we’re first adding moondew to counteract that. You can start with the ecanel root.”

It’s become a familiar routine to get the ingredients from the cabinet and ready her workstation. She takes extra care to make sure the ecanel root is sliced at exactly two millimetres. Once that is ready, she watches as Snape sets up the base of the potion. There’s a fluidity to his motions that is mesmerising to watch. Sprinkling in the powdered dragon claw, he lowers the stirring rod and moves it in a figure-eight pattern. Hermione remembers from his notes the potion needs to be stirred in an alternating figure-eight pattern for five minutes and forty-five seconds, so she grabs the used cutting board and knife from the mallowsweet leaves to wash them.

“Fuck!”

The knife makes a loud noise when she drops it in the sink, and she hurries over to Snape. “What’s wrong?”

“I meant to try a new glass stirring rod for when we add the ecanel root, but I’ve left it in my quarters.” He keeps stirring the alternating figure-eight while he speaks, never losing rhythm. “You need to take over while I fetch it.”

“What? I can’t do that.”

Snape grits his teeth. “Granger, get over here now.”

Body tight with nerves, Hermione stands on his left side and observes his movements.

“Take the rod,” he commands.

She takes a deep breath grips the rod below his hand. His skin is cold against hers. She matches his movements and after three rounds of figure eights, his grip slackens.

“Good.” Snape’s hand drops from the stirring rod and he steps away. “I’ll be right back.” He hurries from the room.

Hermione focuses on the movements of the stirring rod, making sure to keep an even tempo and not let the stirring rod touch the sides or bottom of the cauldron. The seconds drag by. What if the timer rings before Snape comes back? The ecanel root needs to be added straight away. The sound of the door opening relaxes her shoulders.

“Did you find it?” she asks, not taking her eyes from the potion.

“Yes.” His chest brushes the back of her shoulder when he peers into the cauldron. “The colour looks to be on track for this stage of the brewing. No, keep stirring,” he adds when she slows down, assuming he’ll take over.

“Even if it doesn’t work, at least nothing’s exploded this time,” she quips.

The timer barely hides what sounds like a snort from Snape, and she lifts the stirring rod. Snape adds the ecanel root and lowers the heat.

“If we’re successful,” he says, stirring in circles with the glass rod, “the potion should turn a periwinkle blue in a minute or two.”

Hermione stares anxiously into the cauldron. A few minutes later, Snape stops stirring. The potion is still a brownish-yellow colour.

Disappointment runs through Hermione, and she sighs. “Another failed attempt.”

“Did you think it would be easy to create a cure?” Snape says, removing the stirring rod from the cauldron.

“No, but I’m still allowed to be disappointed.” She tilts her head. “I wonder if the problem is the ecanel root. Everything seemed to be on track until we added that.”

Snape transfers some of the ruined potion into a beaker, then vanishes the rest. “It’s certainly possible. We can try to add it earlier with the next batch.” He raises an eyebrow. “Unless you have some place to be?”

“Not at all. Since we’re adding the ecanel root earlier, should I cut it in thicker slices? I was thinking maybe six millimetres.”

“I agree. You can also prepare the mallowsweet leaves while I clean this up.”

Turning towards the ingredient cabinet, Hermione stifles a smile. Giving her the task of preparing the pricey mallowsweet leaves is probably the best compliment he could give her.

They work through lunch, and Hermione only realises when her stomach gives a loud undignified rumble as she’s slicing ecanel root for the fourth time that day. Face burning, she keeps her eyes on her task.

When the potion fails—again—at turning periwinkle, Snape lets out a frustrated growl. Hermione sighs.

“I think that’s enough for today,” he says, vanishing the contents.

“At least we’re getting good at knowing what not to do.” Hermione sighs. “When are we making the next attempt?”

“I will let you know. We have gone through my supply of ecanel root, so we’ll have to wait until I can acquire more. It should only be a week at the longest.”

Hermione frowns. “Can’t you get some at Pippin’s Potions?”

Snape shakes his head. “An apothecary barely worth the name. I have another supplier with longer delivery times but higher quality ingredients.”

“I’ll wait for your owl, then,” Hermione says.

Leaving the lab, she checks her watch. It’s still a few hours until dinner. It wouldn’t be the worst thing to get some actual studying done, but she needs sustenance first. She doesn’t like to ask the elves for food outside of mealtimes, but she doubts they will let her make her own cheese toastie.

-

Hermione has read the same paragraph in her ancient runes textbook four times now without retaining any of the information. She covers her mouth with the back of her hand and lets out a big yawn. On her lap, Crookshanks sighs in his sleep and digs his claws into her thigh. It’s late, and the common room is slowly thinning out.

Harry and Ron are playing a game of wizard chess, and by the sound of it, Ron’s winning.

She closes the book. “I’m off to bed.”

Ginny stands from her place next to Harry. “I’ll come with you.”

Hermione carefully lifts Crookshanks, who mrrps, and holds him to her chest. He rubs his chin against hers.

“Night,” Ron says, not looking away from the chess game.

Harry kisses Ginny quickly and smiles at Hermione. “Night.”

They head up the spiral staircase to the girls’ dormitory.

“Were you in the library all day?” Ginny asks, stopping on the landing outside the sixth-years’ door.

Hermione hikes Crookshanks higher on her chest. “Yes, studying.”

Ginny’s brows raise. “I went looking for you before practice since you weren’t at lunch, but I didn’t see you there.”

This web of lies is tightening around her. “I had to get another notebook from my room, that must have been when you came.”

“Luna said she hadn’t seen you all day.”

Fuck. Hermione doesn’t know what to say. She wets her dry lips. “Did you tell Harry?”

“No.” Ginny frowns. “What is going on with you, Hermione?”

The temptation is there to tell Ginny everything, but Dumbledore’s words echo in her brain. This information doesn’t leave this room.

“I can’t tell you, at least not now. You’ve no idea how much I wish I could, Ginny.”

Her face softens. “All right. You’ll tell me when you can?”

Hermione nods. “I just don’t know when that’ll be.”

Ginny smiles softly. “I can wait.”

They say goodnight, and Hermione continues to her dorm. The curtains are drawn around Lavender and Parvati’s beds with soft snores coming from within. Hermione puts Crookshanks on the bed and grabs her shower caddy. Crookshanks arches his back and yawns, then curls up next to her pillow and falls back asleep. Finishing in the bathroom, Hermione changes into her pyjamas and joins him.

-

Potions class has become a strange affair since she started working with Snape on the soul bond potion. She won’t go as far as to say that she knows him, but she’s certainly seen a different side to him than before. It makes her duck her head to hide her smile at his sarcastic remarks—she’s come to enjoy them.

Today’s potion is trickier than anything she’s worked on before. The next step is adding four drops of arnica syrup when the potion is exactly 78 degrees. Too hot and the syrup will incinerate before taking effect. She checks the temperature; it’s almost ready. Hermione glances up. Snape is at the front of the room, assisting Michael Corner with his potion.

Another check of the temperature lets her know it’s time for the arnica syrup. Taking a calming breath, she holds the stopper over the cauldron. One drop. Two drops. Three drops. Blinding pain like she’s never felt before radiates from her left arm. Crying out, she drops the stopper and clasps her arm. A splash comes from her cauldron, and the potion starts bubbling. With a loud belch it overflows and splatters over her arm.

“Nobody move!” Snape barks.

Panic washes over Hermione, and the blinding pain makes her light-headed.

“You foolish girl!” Snape grabs her shoulder and pulls her arm towards him to inspect it.

“It was an accident,” she bites out, barely holding back tears.

“She needs the hospital wing,” Harry says.

Snape drops her arm as though it pains him. “Get out of my sight, both of you.”

“Come on.” Harry grabs her bag and wraps his arm around her shoulder.

Once they’re out of the classroom, Hermione stops trying to hold back her tears.

“Fuck, it hurts,” she wheezes, vision blurry.

“What happened?” Harry asks. “You’ve never made a mistake like that before.”

Hermione sniffles. She has a theory, but not one she can share with Harry.

Madam Pomfrey looks horrified when she sees them. “Merlin, Miss Granger, what have you done to yourself?”

“Potions accident,” Hermione bites out.

Madam Pomfrey leads her by her good arm to a bed, where she carefully peels the ruined jumper from her arm. Hermione whimpers. Her stomach turns at seeing the burnt and blistered skin, and she looks away. Harry’s face has gone pale, but he takes her good hand in his and squeezes it.

“I’m sorry, but this will hurt.” Madam Pomfrey scoops burn healing paste from a jar and applies it to Hermione’s raw flesh.

She’s right: it hurts worse than anything Hermione’s felt before. She squeezes Harry’s hand tighter and bites her lip to stop from whimpering.

“The burns weren’t too deep,” Madam Pomfrey says, massaging the thick paste over her skin, “so it will only take a few minutes to heal.”

“Thank you, Madam Pomfrey.” Hermione wipes the drying tears from her face. Her arm throbs, but there’s an icy feeling from the paste that brings her some relief from the burning.

Madam Pomfrey pats her knee. “I’ll get you something for the pain.”

Harry winces and untangles his hand from hers. “I think you broke my hand.”

Hermione chuckles. “Sorry. You should get back to class, I can manage on my own.”

He runs his hand through his hair. “Nah, my potion’s ruined anyway. I’ll stay with you.”

Madam Pomfrey returns with a vial that she orders Hermione to drink. Complying, Hermione grimaces at the taste. Within seconds, the icy pain in her arm dulls to a faint ache.

“It’s usually you coming with me to the Hospital Wing,” Harry quips with a grin. “This is a nice change.”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “How about we both try to stay out of the Hospital Wing this year instead?”

Harry laughs. “Deal.”

-

When the last student leaves the classroom, Severus vanishes Granger’s ruined potion and Potter’s incomplete one. He scowls. He fears they’ve discovered another side effect of the soul bond. Levitating the cauldrons to the sink, he drops them in more forcefully than necessary. Severus recognises his annoyance is unjust; he was barely able to hide his reaction to the Dark Mark burning in class; he shouldn’t expect her to. If that is what happened. With a whip of his wand, Severus sets the cauldrons to clean themselves.

Despite himself, Severus looks for Granger’s untamed curls when he takes his place at the High Table. She is nowhere to be found. He frowns. Poppy should have been able to fix her up straight away.

“I didn’t see your name on the Hogsmeade list for this weekend,” Minerva says, giving him a pointed look.

“An astute observation. I have detentions to oversee and a Hospital Wing to replenish.”

Minerva’s brows raise. “You gave detention on a Hogsmeade weekend? That seems unusually cruel even for you.”

“Misses Fletcher and Miah should have thought about that before they stayed out after curfew.” Severus reaches for the closest dish, but a movement at the end of the Great Hall makes him pause. Granger is heading down the length of the Gryffindor table, Potter in tow. She looks unhurt, though she holds her right arm close to her chest. Her gaze meets his. She nods slightly before looking away and taking a seat.

“Poppy told me what happened with Hermione,” Minerva says. “It’s very unlike her.”

Severus ignores her and pours gravy on his potatoes. If Minerva only knew what trouble her precious cub had caused. He eats quickly, then excuses himself. He needs to prepare for his next class; second year Hufflepuffs and Slytherins who seem adamant to kill themselves, or him. There were four melted cauldrons in their last class, which is a new record. He’s almost at his office when there are running footsteps behind him.

“Professor!” Granger slows to a walk when he stops. “I need to talk to you about what happened in class today.”

“You will receive a zero for today’s assignment, Miss Granger,” he says loudly, mindful of who else might be listening.

“I know, sir.” She hoists her bag higher on her shoulder. “Can I just have a few minutes?”

Opening his office door, he jerks his head for her to enter.

“How is your arm?” he asks once the door is shut behind them.

“A bit sore, but all right. Madam Pomfrey said it should be all healed by this afternoon.”

“What happened?

Granger frowns. “I’m not sure. I was adding the arnica syrup when my arm started hurting.” She touches her left forearm. “I’ve never felt anything like it; it was like my arm was on fire.”

Fuck. It’s as he suspected. Moving around her, he leans against his desk and crosses his arms over his chest. “What you felt was the Dark Lord summoning his followers.”

“You mean…”

“We’ve discovered another side effect of the soul bond, yes. I do not believe it’s linked to the Dark Mark, but the strong sensation of pain that comes with it being activated. I can only assume other strong emotions will break through the bond as well.”

Her frown softens. “It hurts you?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your doing.” Severus pushes himself to stand. “The ecanel root order will be delivered tonight.”

“I’ll come by after my classes,” Granger says.

Severus shakes his head. “I will be engaged elsewhere tonight. We’ll work on the potion tomorrow.”

“Oh, okay.” Granger smiles weakly. “Be careful, sir.”

He remains still as she leaves his office, unnerved by her words.

Chapter Text

When his last class lets out for the day, Severus stops by his quarters to fetch his travel cloak and mask before making his way down to the Apparition point. The sun is low in the sky, blinding him. He curses its very existence. The gates close behind him with a low groan. Rolling his shoulders, Severus takes a deep breath. The Dark Lord doesn’t usually summon him during the day, so he doesn’t know what to expect. He makes sure his Occlumency shields are firmly in place before touching his Dark Mark and apparating.

He arrives on a gravel drive in a rainy Wiltshire. The manor house towering in front of him feels like being dragged underwater, rocks in his pockets weighing him down as he kicks towards the surface. A peacock squawks from the lawns. Severus resists the urge to hex it. The white peacocks always were Lucius’ pride and joy. Not that he gets much enjoyment out of them from his cell in Azkaban. Severus stalks towards the entrance. The door opens on the second knock, revealing the pointed nose and watery eyes of Peter Pettigrew.

“You’re late,” Pettigrew says through a vicious grin.

“Scurry back to your rathole,” Severus sneers, raising his wand.

Flinching, Pettigrew steps back. Severus swallows the hex on his tongue and enters the house. One day Pettigrew will get what he deserves, and Severus will enjoy every second of it. He goes inside the dimly lit entrance hall, ignoring the whispers from the pale-faced portraits lining the walls.

“Filthy half-blood,” a voice scoffs.

Severus ignores it and turns the bronze handle on the door at the end of the long hallway. It opens to the grand drawing room, which has housed the Dark Lord’s meetings since his return. There is no sign of the ornate table today, which worries him.

“Severus,” comes the lofty voice of the Dark Lord from over by the fireplace.

Crossing the room, Severus falls onto one knee with his head bent. “My Lord.” He knows better than to stand before being given permission to.

“You may rise.”

There’s a twinge in Severus’ knee when he stands, but he keeps his face impassive. The Dark Lord regards him coolly.

“How long have you been back at Hogwarts, Severus?”

“Six weeks, My Lord.”

“Six weeks. And yet, you have not given me any information regarding Harry Potter.”

“Dumbledore has been keeping his distance from me since the start of term. I fear his trust in me has wavered since Draco’s unsuccessful attempt to take his life.”

Voldemort’s bright red eyes narrow, and Severus feels a tickle by his temple. He doesn’t resist as the Dark Lord pierces his mind. Breathing deeply through his nose, Severus forces himself to stand still as memory after memory plays. Voldemort retreats and turns away. Severus pushes back against the sharp pain in his head. He hasn’t got time for it. His secrets remain his own. For now.

“You must persist,” the Dark Lord says, back still turned towards him. “Do not fail me, Severus.”

“I won’t, My Lord.”

“You may leave.”

Severus bows and strides from the room. His head is splitting. Though he rarely indulges in such things, tonight calls for a firewhisky. There’s a movement and light from the staircase. Narcissa halts, looking down on him. Her hand is pale on the mahogany bannister.

“Good evening, Narcissa,” he says, tucking his hands into his pockets.

“Severus.” Her voice is icy. The way she looks at him reminds him of their first meeting as students: she exuded wealth and status, and his uniform was two sizes too big. The seconds pass, and then she continues upstairs without a word.

-

On Friday at lunch, an envelope floats down into Hermione’s shepherd’s pie. She frowns. That’s odd. She spells the mashed potatoes from the paper and turns it over. It only has her name on it in handwriting she doesn’t recognise.

“What’s that?” Harry asks, peering over at the envelope.

“I’ve no idea.” Pushing her hair behind her ear, Hermione tears open the envelope and pulls out the paper. Her brows raise towards her hairline. “It’s from Professor Dumbledore.”

“Dumbledore?” Harry frowns. “What does he want?”

“To have a meeting with me before dinner.” The note is short, containing nothing more than the request and the time. She puts it on the table.

Harry takes the note and looks it over. “A meeting? What for?”

“It doesn’t say.”

“Maybe you’re getting an award,” Ron adds.

“An award? For what?”

“I dunno.” He takes a large bite out of his bread roll. “Being really smart?”

Hermione snorts. “I find that unlikely, but thank you.”

“It would be cool if it was an award, though,” Harry says with a grin. “For reading Hogwarts: A History the most of any student.”

“Or the most hours of studying in a week,” Ron quips.

After lunch they head towards greenhouse three for their Herbology class. Hermione sees Ernie Macmillan and Hannah Abbott walking ahead and speeds up to reach them. Ernie turns when she calls his name.

He smiles. “All right, Hermione?”

“I’m good, thanks. Did you get a note from Professor Dumbledore about a meeting today?”

Ernie frowns. “No. A Head Student meeting?”

“The note didn’t say so I assumed as much, but apparently not.”

When they get to the greenhouse, she joins Harry and Ron. Hermione finds it hard to focus during Herbology, even though the arctic bark Professor Sprout shows them is fascinating. Once class is over she makes her way to Dumbledore’s office. Standing outside, she realises she’s not sure what the password is; the note didn’t say. Drawing her lip between her teeth, she thinks back to the last time she was in the Headmaster’s office.

“Pear drop?”

The stone gargoyle comes to life and moves aside. It’s been a little over a month since the last time she climbed the winding stairs, stomach filled with dread as she followed Snape to what she believed would be her expulsion. She barely knocks on the wooden door at the top of the stairs before it swings open. Hermione wets her dry lips and steps inside. The Headmaster stands by a cabinet next to the fireplace, just closing the cabinet door.

“Ah, Miss Granger! Do sit down.”

Complying, she crosses her legs and puts her hands on her lap. Dumbledore walks around his desk and takes a seat. Hermione tries her best not to fidget.

He gestures to a bowl on the desk. “Would you care for a barley sugar?”

“No, thank you.”

“They’re quite tasty.” Dumbledore pops one into his mouth. “I trust your arm has healed from your accident earlier this week?”

“It has, Sir. Madam Pomfrey healed the burns straight away.”

“Good, good.” He sits back and steeples his fingers underneath his chin. “That is why I called you here.”

Hermione frowns. “Because of my arm?”

“Because of the reason for your accident; feeling Severus’ pain as he was summoned by Tom.” He pauses. “As demonstrated, such a side effect can prove dangerous while brewing. The outcome this time was, thankfully, not too serious. There are no guarantees the same will be the case the next time. I cannot allow that risk to yourself or your classmates.”

Her frown deepens as she tries to make sense of his words. Then she gasps. “You want me to drop my Potions N.E.W.T?”

“It’s not a matter of want, but a necessity.” His voice is stern, and he leans forward. “Imagine if the next time such a thing happens it causes an explosion. Could you have your classmates’ lives on your conscience?”

Cold dread runs through her. She hasn’t considered that. She toys with the hem of her skirt, contemplating. “You’re right,” she says, voice low.

“I’m glad you see it that way.” Dumbledore smiles slightly. “I’m sure you can find something to occupy that time.”

Hermione doesn’t doubt that one bit.

-

The volume is loud inside the Three Broomsticks; talking and laughing mixing with the clinking of glasses and the crackling fire. Shoving her gloves into her coat pocket, Hermione scans the room for a free table.

“Over there,” Harry says, pointing to a table crammed into the space by the stairs that leads to the rooms. “Get the table and I’ll buy us drinks. Butterbeer?”

“Make mine hot, please,” Hermione says.

She and Ron weave through the tables and people and claim the empty seats as their own. The chair creaks when she removes her coat and scarf.

“Fancy coming with us to Zonko’s later?” Ron asks, running a hand through his hair.

“Sure. I need to stop by Scrivenshaft's too, but I’ll meet you there.”

“Brilliant,” he says, but his tone is detached and he’s looking at something over her right shoulder.

Frowning, she turns around. Lavender, Parvati and Padma are sitting at a table close to the fireplace, talking and laughing. Lavender’s eyes flicker to them, then away. Turning back to Ron, Hermione raises her eyebrows.

“You and Lavender? Again?”

“Nah,” Ron says, trying—and failing—to look unbothered. “I mean. I still think she’s fit, but I reckon she hates me now.”

“You did treat her kind of shitty in your break up, but I don’t think she hates you. Have you actually talked to her this year?”

“Not outside of class, no.”

Hermione stifles a chuckle. “Maybe start there, see what happens.”

Ron makes a face.

Harry makes his way towards them, followed by two familiar figures. Lupin’s hair is more shot through with grey than when she saw him last Christmas, though he looks healthier and not quite so shabby.

“Wotcher Ron, Hermione,” Tonks says with a smile. Her hair is shoulder length and pumpkin coloured for the occasion, making her look like Ron’s relative.

Hermione smiles. “Hello!”

Harry puts their drinks down and then it’s a shuffle to squeeze them all around a table not meant for five people.

“I trust you’re well?” Lupin asks, wrapping his hands around his mug.

“All right,” Harry says. He lowers his voice. “Any news from the Order?”

Lupin shakes his head. “Things have been quiet lately.”

“Too quiet,” Tonks adds. “It’s making me jittery.”

“Dumbledore isn’t telling me anything either,” Harry says. “I’ve asked him about what happened at the Astronomy Tower with Malfoy, but he only said what’s done is done. Snape had something to do with it, I’m sure of it.”

“Oh, not this again, Harry,” Hermione says with an eye roll. “You have got to stop trying to put Professor Snape to blame for everything bad that happens.”

Ron looks amused.

“Hermione is right, Harry,” Lupin says, then lowers his voice. “He’s part of the Order, and Dumbledore trusts him.”

“Dumbledore’s been wrong before,” Harry persists. “He didn’t let Snape keep teaching Defence this year.”

“I think that’s got more to do with it needing a Potions Master after Slughorn left.”

Hermione clears her throat. Now is as good a time as any. “While we’re on the subject; I’ve dropped my Potions N.E.W.T.”

“You did what?” Ron’s face is shocked. “When?”

“At my meeting with Dumbledore yesterday.” Hermione takes a sip of her cooling butterbeer. She hates lying.

“You’re not messing with time-turners again, are you? That was the reason the last time you dropped a class.”

“I’m not! I’m just really busy with my other classes, and it’s not as though I’m planning a career in potions anyway.”

“Many careers require a passing N.E.W.T in Potions, Hermione,” Lupin says, his brows knitted together. “I would advise you to stick with it, even if you can’t maintain the grade you want.”

“Then I’ll choose a career that does not require it,” Hermione bites back.

“Hermione, why are you—”

She stands and grabs her coat. “I’ve got to go.”

Ignoring them calling after her, Hermione leaves the Three Broomsticks. Her throat constricts and hot tears burn in her eyes. She’s not fully accepted she won’t be getting a N.E.W.T in Potions, and having Harry and Ron question her decision isn’t making things easier. Walking past Scrivenshaft’s, Hermione makes her way back to the castle. She wipes at her eyes. The trek calms her down—somewhat—and when she reaches the entrance hall she chooses the corridor instead of the staircase to Gryffindor Tower. A glance behind her to make sure she’s alone in the corridor, and she taps her wand to the bricks making up the hidden archway.

Snape looks up when the bricks rearrange themselves, and there’s a moment of surprise on his face before it turns impassive. “I thought you’d be in Hogsmeade with your dunderhead friends like the rest of the school.”

“I’ve already been. What are you brewing?”

“Another attempt at a cure.”

There’s a pang of something in her chest. “I thought we were working on it together?”

Snape arches a brow. “You’re here now, aren’t you?”

Hanging her coat and scarf by the door, she pulls her hair back and approaches the workbench. “Which step are you on?”

“We’re adding aconite this time.”

She glances at the plant with purple flowers lying on the chopping board. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?

He snorts. “I don’t fancy going to Azkaban for poisoning one of McGonagall’s cubs, especially not the Head Girl.”

Smiling, Hermione looks over the new instructions scribbled hastily on a piece of parchment. “I assume Professor Dumbledore talked with you about my dropping out of Potions?”

“He did, and I would have suggested the same thing.”

She gasps. “What?”

Putting down the knife, he sighs. “The soul bond makes you a liability in the classroom. The potions in the curriculum later this year will only get more complex and volatile, and we don’t know how the soul bond will evolve before we’re able to put a stop to it.”

Hermione bites the inside of her cheek. She feels selfish for being so upset about her school work when she could cause injury or death. “I can read the theoretical parts of the class, at least. If you wouldn’t mind giving me the curriculum?” At his raised eyebrow, she sighs. “I won’t share it with anyone, I promise.”

“All right. I’ll get you a copy tomorrow.”

She realises she’s failed in hiding her excitement when Snape mutters something sounding like “swot” underneath his breath.

Chapter Text

Finishing her dinner, Hermione stands. “I’ll see you later; I’m going to—”

“The library,” Harry finishes for her with a grin. “See you after practice.”

She forces herself not to look for Snape at the High Table before leaving. Since apologising on Saturday night, Harry and Ron have kept their grumbling about her study habits to the minimum. They even spent the majority of the previous day with her in the library.

Professor McGonagall stops her in the entrance hall. “Miss Granger, do you have a moment?”

Hermione’s pulse quickens. “Of course, Professor.”

“Follow me, please.”

It’s hard not to feel like a disobedient first-year as she follows McGonagall to her office on the first floor. A fire is already crackling in the hearth when they enter, and Hermione declines the offer for tea.

“How are you, Hermione?” McGonagall asks, taking a seat in the armchair opposite Hermione and folding her hands on her lap.

“I’m good, thank you, Professor.” Other than being soul-bonded to her double agent professor, at least.

“That’s good.” McGonagall looks at her over her square glasses. “The Headmaster has informed me you’ve decided not to continue with your Potions N.E.W.T.”

Hermione freezes. “Oh. Yes, I have.”

“Why didn’t you come to me if you were feeling overwhelmed with your classes?”

The disappointment in McGonagall’s voice is almost too much for her to handle.

“I’m sorry, Professor,” Hermione says. “I would have come to you, but I was talking with Professor Dumbledore about my Head Girl duties and we got to talking about Potions,” she lies.

“I see.” McGonagall purses her lips slightly.

“I’ll have more time to focus on my other classes,” Hermione continues. “I much prefer to spend my energy on Arithmancy and Ancient Runes.”

“I’m not surprised to hear that. Professor Vector was telling me the other day how well you’re doing in her class. Are you considering continuing your studies in Arithmancy after finishing Hogwarts?”

Hermione chuckles softly. “Honestly, Professor, I don’t think that far ahead. Not when You-Know-Who is still around.”

McGonagall’s face turns less sour. “There will be an end to this war, Hermione. Sooner or later.”

“I hope so.”

“I won’t keep you for any longer, you should enjoy the rest of your weekend.” McGonagall stands.”Don’t forget that my door is always open.”

Hermione nods. “Thank you, Professor.”

Leaving the office, her shoulders slump. If only she could tell the truth.

-

Severus has stopped being surprised at Granger being in his lab when he gets there. She isn’t usually rummaging through his ingredients, though. A pewter cauldron—standard size—is set up on the worktop next to an open copy of Advanced Potion-Making.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Clutching a jar of lacewing flies, Granger turns stiff as a board. There’s a nervous flutter in his stomach that isn’t his own. “Brewing N.E.W.T potions. If the only reason I wasn’t able to continue with the subject was me putting other students at risk, I don’t see why I can’t do the brewing on my own. It won’t give me an official N.E.W.T, but at least I won’t get a lesser education than my classmates.”

Severus pinches the bridge of his nose. Merlin save him from overzealous Gryffindors. “I assume you expect me to mark your work?”

“I don’t expect you to do anything, sir. I’ve got a theoretical understanding of what the potions should look like.” Granger squares her shoulders. “If you say no I’ll brew in the Room of Requirement instead.”

He should dock points for her defiant tone, but he can’t blame her for wanting to learn. “All right, you may do your N.E.W.T brewing here, under some stipulations.”

The unsettled nerves in his stomach fade away.

“Of course, sir.”

Severus approaches the workbench. “Your work in my class has previously shown more promise than your dunderhead friends, which is a small comfort considering their incompetence, and is the only reason I am allowing this. You will keep your workstation clean and tidy, and for Merlin’s sake ask for help if you need it. You will not endear yourself to me if you get yourself blown up.”

She chuckles. “I’ll try my best, sir.”

His eyebrow arches. “Carry on, then. I need to make a new batch of the mallowsweet infusion.” He gets the moondew flask and the jar of mallowsweet leaves from the ingredient cabinet.

“Do we still have enough left to try another batch tomorrow?”

“Yes.” Severus grabs a clean jar from the top shelf and disinfects it with a quick spell. “I want to try again with the aconite. I did some calculations that have made me cautiously optimistic we will have a cure soon.” He looks over at the magically cloched whisper collard sitting safely on the worktop. He’s not too keen on adding the plant before they have a working recipe for the cure, since it doesn’t have an infinite supply. “What were you doing in the Forbidden Forest looking for the plant?”

When he looks at Granger, he finds her cheeks have turned pink. She sets down the silver knife and the valerian root she had been about to slice.

“I, uh, read about it in a book.” Clearing her throat, she turns to look at him. “It said that if you harvest the plant on your 18th birthday, your magic would mature stronger and more powerful. Well, there was a legend about it,” she adds, face turning more pink.

He fights the urge to shake her for her naivety. “You risked my life and yours because of a legend? I thought you were more rational than that, Granger.”

“I didn’t know about the soul bond!” Her eyes flash with annoyance. “As for the legend, I’m not even sure if I wanted it to be real or if I just wanted…” she trails off. “Never mind.”

Ah. Her need to prove herself seeps through every raised hand, every essay that’s at least four inches too long.

Severus snorts. “You’re not the first witch to seek power to needlessly prove your worth, nor will you be the last.”

Granger’s eyes drift to his forearm. “Is that why you joined You-Know-Who? Because you wanted power?”

Something twists inside of him, sharp and stinging. “I was unaware that my personal life is any of your concern, Miss Granger. I suggest you get back to your potion.”

Face flushing pink again, she picks up her knife again. They work on their respective potions in silence, and he can feel the tension radiating from her. Severus puts the lid onto the mallowsweet infusion and puts it in the ingredients cabinet, where it will need to steep for ten days.

“I’m sorry, sir, for overstepping. It won’t happen again.” Her mouth is down-turned, and she’s worrying a piece of parchment between her fingers.

Severus grabs the jar of powdered unicorn horn from the shelf. “You’re right, it won’t.”

She finishes the potion and leaves without a word. Severus’ grip tightens around the stirring rod.

-

The morning of the first Quidditch match of the season is a cold and grey one, and the ceiling in the Great Hall feels so low it might as well touch the tops of their heads. Hermione glances at the High Table. Snape is reading The Prophet, one hand curled around his mug. She’s still not sure what she was thinking asking him about why he joined You-Know-Who. Foolishly, she had started to feel like they were becoming… not friends, but something other than before. It’s clear she was mistaken. In the two weeks since, Snape has become even colder towards her than before the soul bond. She hasn’t dared work on her N.E.W.T potions even though he gave her permission to do so, and only spends time in the lab when they’re working on the soul bond cure.

Black eyes meet hers. Hermione’s stomach does a loop. It feels like he can see straight through her. Then he looks away, and the moment is gone. Bending her head, she reaches for her orange juice and hopes her face isn’t as pink as it feels. Harry, Ron and Ginny are discussing the upcoming match, but Hermione only listens with half an ear.

Ginny nudges her shoulder. “All right, Hermione?”

“Yeah, I’m good. Just thinking about my Arithmancy project.”

“When we win, you have to celebrate with us,” Ron says, spreading butter on his toast.

“If we win,” Harry corrects him. “Quinn’s put together a good team this year.”

“Well yeah, but it’s Hufflepuff.” Ron makes a face that shows how ridiculous he finds the claim.

Harry checks his watch. “We’re meeting the team in ten minutes for warm-ups. See you later, Hermione.”

Ron gives her a cheeky grin as he stands. “Set a timer, yeah?”

Her face burns. “That was one time!”

When they’ve left, Hermione glances at the High Table again only to find an empty seat next to McGonagall. Finishing her toast, she grabs her book bag and heads for the dungeons. She passes the closed door of the Potions classroom and into the next corridor.

“Are you lost, Granger?”

She spins around, wand raised. Pansy Parkinson leans casually against the dungeon wall, inspecting her nails.

“I’ve got as much right to be here as you do,” Hermione says, lowering her wand slightly but keeping her tight grip on it.

“That’s not true, though, is it?” Pansy looks at her with a smirk. “You see, Mudbloods like you don’t have a right to be here. Not in these dungeons, not in this school. Not on this earth, really.”

Hermione’s stomach sinks when the towering figures of Crabbe and Goyle appear behind Pansy. Why did she choose today of all days not to use the shortcut Snape instructed her to use?

“It’s only a matter of time before every Mudblood gets what’s coming to them.” Pansy’s smirk widens. “Remember that.” Pushing herself off the wall, she turns and disappears around the corner with Crabbe and Goyle following closely.

Sliding her wand up her sleeve, Hermione wipes her clammy palms on her jeans. She’s not given much thought to the Slytherin students with Malfoy gone, but it seems Crabbe and Goyle have found themselves a new leader. Hating how her hands shake, she hurries towards the lab. It’s empty, but a simmering cauldron betrays Snape hasn’t gone far. The door to his quarters is ajar, but there’s no light from the other side. Attempting to stifle her curiosity, she approaches the workbench to see what potion he’s brewing. In doing so, her eyes glide over the open doorway. In the darkness, she can only make out the base of a narrow wooden staircase. When footsteps approach, she hastily turns her back to the door and busies herself with the potion. It’s giving off a distinct plum smell, and she inhales deeply. Heavy boots meeting stone lets her know Snape has joined her.

“Is this Draught of Peace?” she asks, stepping back from the potion.

“A variation of it.” Snape slices his wand through the air, and a series of glowing runes appears over the potion.

“I didn’t know runes could be used in conjunction with potions.” Putting her book bag on the stool, she tries to make sense of the runes. She doesn’t recognise the pattern or symbols from her ancient runes class.

“Contrary to what you might believe, there are things outside your knowledge.”

Her cheeks flush at this biting tone, but she’s had enough. “With respect, sir, you need to get over yourself. I’ve already apologised for crossing the line, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t treat me like one of your first-years. I think I’ve earned some modicum of respect.”

His brow arches high. She nearly gives in and apologises for that too, but raises her chin and doesn’t break eye contact. He bloody well better not be picking up her panic at speaking that way to a professor through the soul bond.

Snape clears his throat. “Runes are beneficial for tracking the way a potion behaves in real time, much like medicinal runes are used, so you can make adjustments for sensitive potions. Arithmancy is mostly used in the creation of potions.”

She could dance in relief at his cordial tone. “Like the soul bond cure?”

Snape vanishes the runes and lowers the temperature of the burner underneath the potion. “Yes. I’ve been attempting to use arithmancy for the recipe, but it’s proving difficult. It’s been a long time since I sat my Arithmancy N.E.W.T.”

Hermione bites the inside of her cheek, contemplating. “Can I take a look at it?”

He gives her an incredulous look before stepping over to the desk. He rummages through the stacks of books, then straightens with a piece of parchment in his hand. “This is the current version of the cure,” he says, handing it to her. “See if you can make something out of it.”

“Thank you.” She reads his arithmantic formulations with a furrowed brow.

“If you are under the impression I can continue work on this potion with you intruding on my person, you are sorely mistaken,” he says.

Hermione grins sheepishly. “Sorry, sir.”

Moving to a free workstation, she takes out a fresh roll of parchment and copies the instructions to it. Sinking her teeth into her lower lip, she ponders where to start. They used aconite on the last variation of the cure, so she writes the word on a new row and breaks down the arithmantic components.

It’s soothing to hear Snape work in the background: the rhythmic preparation of ingredients, the bubbling of the potion, him occasionally mumbling to himself. Hermione glances his way, but he’s so focused on the potion he doesn’t notice. The fumes have turned his hair and skin damp, and she realises it’s probably the reason for his cruel nickname. She turns her attention back to the recipe. She’s finished about a third of the arithmetic equations, which is good progress. Checking her watch, she stands with a shriek.

“What the devil is the matter with you?” Snape asks, voice terse. “Have you turned into a banshee?”

“It’s almost noon!” She frantically shoves her belongings into her bag. “I’m missing the match.”

He snorts. “I never thought you a Quidditch fan, Granger.”

Ignoring him, she rushes down to the Quidditch pitch. Sweaty and out of breath, she stops by the entrance. Large groups of students are walking in her direction, talking lively about the match. Fuck. She missed the entire match. She pushes a curl sticking to her clammy forehead behind her ear. Judging by the sour faces of the group of Hufflepuff first-years that just walked past her, Gryffindor won. That makes her feel worse. Moving against the crowd, she heads for the locker rooms. She spots Luna coming towards her, wearing her lion-topped hat.

“Hello, Hermione,” Luna says, adjusting the hat to keep it from slipping down over her eyes. “I didn’t see you at the match. Did you have a run in with Oraphian butterflies?”

Hermione’s brows raise. “Oraphian butterflies?”

“They make you forget things, you see. I haven’t seen them in a while. Or maybe I have, but I’ve forgot.” She smiles. “I need to go now. Bye, Hermione.”

They go in opposite directions, and Hermione gets to the entrance of the locker rooms just as Harry and Ron are leaving. Their faces are flushed and their smiles wide. Ron notices her first, eyes lighting up.

“Hermione! Did you how I saved that goal? I think I might have sprained my groin but it’s worth it.”

Now she feels even more guilty. “I’m so sorry, I missed the match. I lost track of time.”

Harry snorts. “You should have set a timer.”

“I know, I know. Forgive me?”

“Of course,” Ron says. “Want to hear about the brilliant save I did?”

They walk towards the castle, arms linked.

Chapter Text

Time passes in a blur of mock-up exams, studying and working on the arithmantic formula for the soul bond cure. An unusually intense snowstorm rolls over the castle during the last week of November, cancelling all Herbology classes due to the greenhouses being too cold to work in. The students take advantage of this by having snowball fights out on the lawns.

Copying the last of the runes onto her piece of parchment, Hermione lowers her quill and flexes her hand. It’s been cramping for the past ten minutes, which is probably a sign she needs a break. She looks out the library window and sighs. It’s still snowing. The big, white flakes would be beautiful if she wasn’t so very tired of the snow. In the reflection in the window, she sees Harry rubbing his scar.

She looks from reflection-Harry to the real one. “You all right?”

Harry drops his hand, and his hair falls back to cover the scar. “Yeah. My scar’s been hurting for a few days. Not much,” he adds quickly, and she knows she’s failed to keep worry from her face. “Just an ache, you know?”

“Have you talked to Dumbledore about it?”

He shakes his head. “I might, though. Just in case.”

Hermione can read between the lines. Since Sirius’ death, Harry’s been having regular meetings with the Headmaster to work on his Occlumency to limit You-Know-Who’s access to his mind. She hopes they have better luck than in the lessons with Snape. For the first time, she realises the soul bond bears resemblance to Harry’s connection with You-Know-Who. Snape is better than she is at controlling his emotions—maybe learning Occlumency would help with that—but she’s caught a trace of irritability a few times. Like the shared dreams, it’s something they don’t speak about.

A chair scrapes against the floor when Ron joins them. Harry and Hermione share a look.

“What?” Ron asks, taking a seat and slinging his arm over the back of Hermione’s chair.

“You’ve got lipstick on your neck.”

Ron’s ears turn the same shade as his hair, and he slaps his hand over his neck. Moments later, Lavender steps out from the divination stacks, smoothing her robes. She meets Hermione’s eyes and grins before going to sit with Padma and Parvati.

“So that’s going well?” Hermione asks.

Ron’s smile turns almost sappy. “Yeah. I mean, she’s brilliant, isn’t she?” Clearing his throat, he leans his elbows on the table. “What are you talking about?”

“Voldemort.”

Ron grimaces. “He’s less brilliant.”

“Decidedly so,” Hermione says, picking up her quill. She really wants to finish her ancient runes homework so she can continue with the arithmantic formula for the soul bond cure. She’s close to a solution, she can feel it.

“Is it just me or have things been a bit quiet lately?” Ron asks. “It makes you wonder what he’s planning.”

“I don’t want to know what a Death Eater Christmas party looks like,” Harry says with a shudder.

“I second that. Speaking of, you’re both invited to the Burrow for Christmas hols. Charlie’s coming over from Romania, so it’ll be a full house. Mum’s happy as a Cornish Pixie.”

“Count me in, mate,” Harry says, turning a page in his textbook.

Hermione shakes her head. “Thank you, but I’m spending it with my parents this year. I’ll still come over,” she continues. “And you’re invited to mine, too.”

“Brilliant.” Ron flips through his notes. “This is too much homework, how can anyone keep up?”

“By doing less snogging and more studying.”

Harry snorts.

-

Granger is practically vibrating with excitement when Severus gets to the lab after his final class on Friday afternoon.

“I think I’ve got it!” She waves a piece of parchment in his face, and he jerks back.

“Have you gone insane?” He closes the door to his quarters and snatches the paper before she pokes him in the eye with it.

She shakes her head vehemently, and a loose curl bounces around her face. She pushes it back and taps the parchment with her index finger. “I think I’ve worked out the arithmantic formula for the soul bond cure.”

Severus blinks twice. “You did?”

“I’m almost sure. See, I was having trouble figuring out what to use as a binding product. The formula called for something with the value of nine, but I couldn’t figure out an ingredient with that value but that wouldn’t interact badly with the mallowsweet infusion.”

He scans her loopy handwriting, the crossed-out rows and underscored numbers. “Pearl dust and lavender oil?”

“Yes. On its own, the pearl dust only has the value seven, but the lavender oil brings it up to a nine and won’t lessen the effect of the mallowsweet leaves.”

He brings the parchment over to the workbench. Granger follows and perches on the available stool. His raised brow has no effect on her, and she only looks expectantly at him.

“Well?”

“I think peppermint oil will be better suited than lavender oil,” Severus says, sketching out a quick formula on the bottom of the page. “The lavender oil will be too heavy for this potion.” He looks at her. “Other than that, I believe we have a cure.”

Her smile is dazzling. “We can start it today, can’t we? We have enough of the mallowsweet infusion left.”

Severus nods. “I believe we do, Granger. If you could bring a size two copper cauldron, please.” While she does, he attempts to decipher some of her illegible writing so they’ll have a full set of instructions. The copper cauldron is set down next to him.

“That says two tablespoons, not teaspoons,” Granger says.

“Clear penmanship is the most important aspect of potion research.” Severus crosses out teaspoons and writes tablespoons instead.

She grins. “No disrespect, sir, but I’ve seen your research notes. It’s a wonder you can find anything in that mess.”

Severus chuckles and turns the burner on below the cauldron with a flick of his wand. “Touché.”

Adding the distilled water to the cauldron, he can’t tell if the clump of nerves in his stomach belongs to him or not.

“Even if it works,” Granger says when he adds the first tablespoon of pearl dust, “it will still be over a month until the cure is ready.”

“Let’s hope it works, then.” He adds the second tablespoon and stirs generously. The potion gets an iridescent sheen, and he puts the stirring rod to the side and sets a timer for twenty minutes.

Granger fetches the mallowsweet infusion from the cabinet and puts the beaker on the worktop. There’s a contemplative look on her face, and she blurts out, “Why Potions?”

Severus snorts. “Are you feeling existential today? If the question is ‘why are Potions’, your first-year Potions textbook can answer that for you.”

Her lips curl upwards. “I meant what first drew you to Potions?”

The question catches him off guard. He ignores the urge to dip into her mind; there’s no need. Her face shows her every emotion, and there’s nothing but open curiosity.

Clearing his throat, Severus picks up the jar of pearl dust. “It was my mother’s favourite subject. When I was little she used to brew potions in our kitchen and allow me to help.” He puts the jar back in the cabinet. “I was drawn to the precision and possibilities of potion making. To become proficient it’s not enough to just follow the instructions; you must understand the properties of the ingredients and how they interact with each other.”

“Bewitching the mind and ensnaring the senses,” she mumbles under her breath.

Raising his brow, Severus checks the magical timer. “Once you have an understanding of the ingredients you’re working with, you can make variations of existing potions.”

“Or invent potions.” There’s a beat of silence. “Have you invented many potions?”

He sighs. “Granger, what did I say about asking mindless questions?”

“I’m just making conversation. I’ve realised I don’t know much about you.”

Foolish girl. “And this is a problem because?”

She raises her chin defiantly. “Considering our souls are bonded together I feel I should know more about you than your preference for steel stirring rods and that you talk to yourself when you brew.” The defiance leaves her, and there’s an irritating flutter of nerves somewhere behind his belly button. She really should learn to control that.

“I’d like to be your friend,” she continues.

Severus scowls. “You forget your place, Granger.”

“Oh, bugger that.” She turns towards him and crosses her arms over her chest. “You’ve felt the bond getting stronger too, haven’t you?”

It started a few days ago: the feeling of becoming aware of the bond, like bright silver threads between them. Once he realised what it was, he shot out of bed and went through every book in his collection in search of more information about the soul bond. When his alarm went off several hours later he had found out nothing.

Granger looks expectantly at him, which is both infuriating and concerning.

“When we finish the cure, it won’t matter,” he says.

She’s about to argue, but the timer goes off.

Severus adds the mallowsweet leaves one by one, stirring thoroughly between each one. “After we add the peppermint oil, the potion needs to stew for 14 days,” he says, adding the final leaf.

“I know,” Granger says, and hands him the uncorked bottle of peppermint oil. “Do you want me to be in charge of the daily stirring? In case you…are called away.”

Lowering the temperature underneath the cauldron, Severus takes the bottle from her. “That would be acceptable.” He adds four drops of peppermint oil, and the potion gives a low hiss and lightens to a very pale robin’s egg blue.

“Now we wait,” Granger says.

Severus nods. “Now we wait.”

-

Dumbledore sits back and smiles. “It appears we have everything under control,” he says. “And since I don’t think we’ll have cause to have another meeting before the holidays; a happy Christmas to you both.”

“And to you, sir,” Ernie says.

“Happy Christmas, sir.” Hermione stands and checks her wristwatch. She should be getting down to Snape’s lab soon.

“Miss Granger, might I have a word before you leave?”

“Of course, sir.” She feels Ernie’s curious gaze as he leaves the office. “Is something wrong, sir?” she asks when the heavy door has closed and they’re alone.

“Not at all, I just wanted a chance to speak with you about your special project.” He steeples his fingers underneath his chin. “Severus tells me you are close to completing the cure for the soul bond.”

Hermione nods. “It’s another week until the potion will be ready for the next step, but Professor Snape is confident it will be successful.” So is she, but she doesn’t dare think about it too much.

Leaning back in his seat, Dumbledore smiles. “Excellent news, Miss Granger. I’m sure you’re anxious to be able to put all this behind you.”

Hermione ponders his words as she twists the staff of the statue of Athena in the west corridor. Is she anxious to be rid of the soul bond? The short answer is both yes and no. The statue moves out of the way, and Hermione descends the spiral staircase. She could do without constantly worrying about Snape picking up on her every emotion—not to mention a few dreams she really doesn’t want him to see—and the whole dying clause isn’t ideal. But she’s learnt more about her Potions Professor in the past three months than she has in the six years before, and has realised that she rather likes him. He’s short-tempered and vindictive for sure, but also brilliant with a wicked sense of humour. She hadn’t been lying when she said she wanted to be his friend. Because they agreed not to speak about it, she’s kept her mouth shut about the dreams that must be from his later years at Hogwarts.

As soon as the stones rearrange themselves into an archway, Hermione can tell Snape is in a bad mood. The rhythmic sounds from the knife are bordering on violent, and he throws the sliced dandelion root into a large glass container. That it’s half-full betrays he’s been at it for a while.

“Evening, sir,” Hermione says, hanging up her outer robe.

He grunts in reply and grabs another dandelion root.

Deciding it’s better to let him stew in peace, Hermione pulls her hair back at the nape of her neck and steps up to the workbench where the soul bond cure is simmering. She takes a glass stirring rod from the drawer and disinfects it with a quick spell before stirring fifteen times anti-clockwise. When she lifts the rod, the potion sizzles slightly. She checks for any inconsistencies in colour or texture. Finding none, she smiles and puts down the stirring rod. The potion will work, she can feel it.

Snape is still hacking away at the dandelion root, sounding like he might make it through the table at any moment. Whatever he’s feeling, he’s keeping from her. There’s not as much as a hint of frustration through the bond.

“What is the dandelion root for?” she asks, stepping up to the workstation.

“Cough drop solution,” Snape replies without looking at her, reaching for another root.

“Can I help?”

“No.”

Hermione sighs. “Will you tell me what’s wrong?”

“What makes you think something’s wrong?”

“Other than you slicing enough dandelion root to make cough drop solution for all of Wizarding Britain?” Were she braver, she would take the knife from him to force him to stop and look at her. She would very much like to keep all her fingers, though.

His jaw clenches and he still won’t meet her eye. “This doesn’t concern you. Please leave.”

“I beg to differ.”

Snape slams the knife down so hard that the remaining dandelion roots on the worktop roll to the floor. “Granger, for once do as you’re told.”

Hermione is about to argue when there’s a flicker in her chest as Snape’s Occlumency shields slip just a little. Pain. Anger. Guilt. She lets out a soft gasp. The feelings disappear, but it’s left her with a hollow feeling inside her chest cavity. Snape is still looking down at the sliced dandelion roots in front of him, chest heaving. Exhaling shakily, Hermione picks up the dandelion roots from the stone floor and cleans them before placing them on the worktop. Before she can second-guess herself, she puts her hand on his forearm. He stiffens slightly but doesn’t shrug her off.

“I’m sorry,” she says softly. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

There’s a small movement when he tilts his head towards her. His black eyes are no longer filled with anger, but rather a quiet acceptance. “You may stay. If you wish.”

She blinks, confused by his shift in attitude. He is a very complex man. “All right.” She removes her hand from his sleeve. “I’ll get started making Dreamless Sleep.”

While she makes the preparations, Snape puts the unused dandelion roots back in their jar and cleans up his station. As she’s removing the lavender blossoms from the stem, she feels him come up behind her.

“You’ll get better results if you bruise the blossoms before adding them to the potion.”

She looks over her shoulder at him. “The book says to add them whole.”

A snort. “The book is wrong.”

She rips the blossoms from another stem. “Don’t you have cough drop solution to make?”

Snape’s lips twitch for a second before he does just that.

Chapter Text

Hermione covers a yawn with the back of her hand and reaches for the coffee. She prefers tea in the morning—too much caffeine makes her jittery—but she slept abysmally last night. Snape’s odd behaviour was on her mind as she fell asleep, and so her dreams were filled with him looming over her, screaming that baneberries had the arithmantic number of 3.14 and that adding cat hair to the potion would cause her to grow scales. As for the rest of her dreams… she lowers her face to her coffee mug. If he caught a glimpse of those she would like to petition to move to Antarctica.

“Did you finish Sprout’s essay yesterday?” Ron asks around a mouthful of bacon. “I need another two inches on mine.”

Harry snorts.

“Thank you for that mental image,” Ginny says with an eye roll.

“Oi, there’s nothing wrong with my—”

“Let’s stop that sentence there, shall we?” Hermione interjects.

“Please.”

The sound of hundreds of owls coming through the ceiling distracts her. A barn owl swoops down next to her muesli and almost topples over her glass of orange juice.

“Thank you,” she says, taking the newspaper and offering a piece of toast as payment.

Unfolding the Prophet, Hermione gasps.

A photograph of a burning house takes up the entire front page; the flames twisting into shapes of serpents and dragons. Several wizards in Auror robes are shown attempting to get the Fiendfyre under control. The Dark Mark coils in the sky, partially lit by the flames.

FAMILY OF FOUR MURDERED IN BEDWAS the headline says.

Hermione’s chest tightens as she scans the text. Rokhsana Marek—columnist for the Sentinel Standard—her husband and two children were killed when Death Eaters attacked their house on Thursday evening. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement were alerted when Fiendfyre was cast on the house. She blinks rapidly against the tears forming. There’s a family photograph on the bottom. Hermione takes in their smiling faces, the way the toddler blows an endless raspberry at the viewer.

“It’s terrible.” A hand is placed on her shoulder. “Are you okay, Hermione?” Ginny asks, squeezing her fingers.

“I’m fine,” Hermione says, still reading the article. It doesn’t offer a lot of details, other than the speculation that Marek was targeted for a series of columns she wrote about the dangers of blood supremacy and how much the wizarding world could learn from Muggles.

“My scar was hurting again last night,” Harry murmurs on her right. “I guess this is why. Fucking bastards.”

Hermione closes the paper. It hurts too much to look at.

Glancing at the High Table, she finds Snape missing. Her stomach turns to knots. She’s not stupid: this is the reason for Snape’s foul mood last night. The feelings he wasn’t able to completely hide from her make sense: the guilt, the anger. Had he been there? Her stomach turns at the thought of him casting a killing curse, or standing by watching others do so. She’s not naive enough to think he’s survived almost twenty years being a double agent without blood on his hands, but being confronted with the possibility head-on is quite different.

“We’ll stop him,” Ron says solemnly.

Hermione can’t help but wonder how many more people will die before they do.

She doesn’t get a chance to speak with Snape until well after dinner. Lying to Harry and Ron about her whereabouts is getting harder and more stressful, even with Ginny being aware something’s going on and giving her meaningful glances in the common room. Snape is, like most nights, elbow-deep in brewing when she gets there. Hermione takes care of the soul bond potion first; checking the temperature—a steady 63 degrees—and stirring fifteen times anti-clockwise.

“I read about Bedwas,” she says, taking a seat on the other side of the workbench.

“Did you now?” The reply is spoken without looking at her.

“Were you there?”

Snape finishes adding what looks like fluxweed to the cauldron. He lowers the flame and rests his hands on the edge of the workbench. Fixing his gaze on her, he says, “No. I was not.”

Her shoulders drop as the images of his face lit by Fiendfyre fade from her mind. The relief must be visible on her face because he scoffs.

“Do not trick yourself into believing I’m an innocent bystander in this war. I knew about the attack, as I’ve known about countless others in the past, but did not stop it.”

“It’s a horrible thing, but You-Know-Who is to blame. Not you,” she says softly.

Snape snorts. “You sound like the Headmaster. Fools, both of you.”

“I’m not a fool,” Hermione says, feeling her cheeks flush.

“You speak like one.” He moves around the workbench, looming over her. “You have no idea what it’s like holding people’s lives in your hand, knowing you can’t help them and that all you can do is stand by and wish their deaths will be swift.” The dark circles underneath his eyes are even more prominent when he’s this close, as is the deep groove between his brows. He looks exhausted.

She doesn’t know where the urge comes from to run her fingers over that groove, to feel it smooth out underneath her touch. Hermione clears her throat. “You’re right, I don’t. But it sounds very lonely.”

Something flickers across his face as he moves back. Then it hardens and he’s her professor once more. “Don’t you have a N.E.W.T potion to make?”

Hermione sighs and goes to fetch a cauldron for her brewing. His moods are starting to give her whiplash.

-

When Severus awakens, it’s with the memory of sitting alone on a school playground while a group of kindergarteners made fun of his teeth and frizzy hair. He scrubs a hand over his face. It’s been a few weeks since one of Granger’s dreams invaded his mind. Whether that is because of the soul bond or the limited sleep he’s been getting lately is hard to say. He rolls onto his side and gets out of bed. The cold stone floor underneath his bare feet makes him shiver. A quick shower and then he’s wrapping himself in his usual layers and leaving his quarters.

As he turns the corner to get to the staffroom, a loud meow interrupts the quiet of barely-morning. A large orange cat trots towards him, bottlebrush tail held high. When it reaches Severus, it pushes its flat face against his leg while purring loudly, forcing him to stop lest he trips over the creature.

Severus sighs. “Is this really necessary?”

The cat ignores him and rubs against his other leg, leaving behind a chunk of orange hairs. It blinks with bright yellow eyes and struts down the corridor without a care in the world. Severus spells the hairs from his trousers.

When he gets to the staffroom, he’s surprised to find it occupied.

“Good morning, Severus.” Minerva lowers her book and gives him a disapproving look perfected after forty-odd years of teaching. “It’s rather early for a Sunday.” Meaning she thinks he sleeps too little.

“You’re telling me.” Making himself a brew, he joins her by the crackling fire.

“It’s this damn cold,” she says, adjusting the blanket on her lap. “Makes my bones ache something fierce.”

Severus arches his brow. “If only there was a Potions Master on the premises who could make you a potion for that.”

“Don’t be cheeky. It’s not worth the effort.” Another pointed look. “Albus tells me there’s something else occupying your time these days.”

“I wouldn’t listen too much to Albus, he’s especially insufferable this time of year.”

“He told me about the soul bond.”

Severus almost spills his tea.

“It’s quite a pickle you’ve found yourself in,” she continues. “I could tell something was different about Miss Granger, but I thought it was the stress of the N.E.W.T.s. She does tend to overwork herself.”

He snorts. She’s spent every night this week in the lab brewing potions from his N.E.W.T class. “Truer words have never been spoken.”

“How are you doing with all of this? You’ve got a lot on your plate.”

Severus shrugs a shoulder. “Well enough.”

Minerva’s face softens. “Severus…”

“Quit your meddling, woman,” he says, but the words lack bite. “I’m handling it.”

Minerva rolls her eyes. “For Merlin’s sake, Severus. You’re stretching yourself too thin, and Miss Granger too. It will do neither of you any good.”

He sips his tea, wondering if there’s ever been a time he didn’t stretch himself too thin.

-

“Do you want to join the next round, Hermione?”

Hermione looks up from her book and shakes her head. “No, thank you. I need to get this reading done before Vector’s class tomorrow.”

Harry grins. “You’re just tired of getting your arse kicked, Ron.”

“Shut it.”

Chuckling, Hermione goes back to her book. Soon, there’s the sound of exploding cards. She tunes it all out; the common room is always the most active in the time between curfew and bedtime and this chapter about arithmantic equations is fascinating. She can’t wait to—

The book slips from her grasp as pain pierces through her body. She writhes as her nerve endings burn and burn and burn. In a foggy distance is someone calling her name but all she can focus on is the pain. Hands grab her upper arms, holding her steady. Then, the pain stops.

“Hermione, what’s wrong?” Ron’s voice is frantic and echoey.

She blinks to clear her vision. Ron and Harry come into view, faces concerned. She’s on the floor with her back against the sofa. The common room has gone silent, everyone watching. Heart pounding, she wets her lips and flinches when she tastes blood. She must have bit her lip. Her throat feels raw from screaming.

“I’m fine,” she croaks out, gingerly getting to her feet with the boys still hovering. And she is, but she suspects Snape isn’t. He wasn’t in the lab when she checked on the soul bond potion earlier, and she can guess where he is. “Really, I’m—”

Her knees buckle as another wave of pain courses through her. Every nerve ending is firing stabbing pain that makes her want to claw out of her skin.

“We’re taking you to the Hospital Wing,” Harry says, determined.

Hermione wants to argue—Poppy will keep her overnight and she does not have time for that—but the pain is still blinding and she’s finding it hard to speak. Harry and Ron each grab an arm and lead her through the portrait hole. They have to stop twice more on their way when a new jolt of pain runs through her. With each one, she gets more panicked about Snape. She shivers as the draft from the castle glides over her sweat-soaked skin.

The Hospital Wing is dark and empty but for a bed in the back with the curtains drawn.

“Madam Pomfrey?”

The Matron comes out of her office, face worried. “What trouble have you got yourself into now?”

“It’s nothing, I’m f—”

“If you say I’m fine one more time, I will burn your planner,” Ron says. “She just started screaming like she was being tortured.”

“Best leave her to me,” Madam Pomfrey says, holding out her arm. “You boys go on back to your common room.”

They reluctantly leave, and with Harry’s “feel better, Hermione,” the door closes behind them.

“Come on then, Miss Granger, let’s get you examined.”

Hermione sits on the bed. “I feel better, I promise.”

Madam Pomfrey tuts and takes out her wand. “Let me do my job, please.”

Sniffing, she folds her hands in her lap. If she gets another episode, Madam Pomfrey will keep her for a week. Hermione’s foot taps against the floor. She needs to know if Snape’s all right.

“That’s odd,” Madam Pomfrey says at length, studying the glowing runes with a furrowed brow. “Other than a slight fatigue, I can’t find anything wrong with you.”

“So I can go?”

“Not so fast.” Madam Pomfrey turns away. “Your pulse is elevated and I’d like it to go back to normal before letting you go. Drink this.” She presses a vial in Hermione’s hand.

Hermione swallows down the Invigoration Draught with a grimace. She does her best to slow her breathing, willing her pounding heart to calm down so Madam Pomfrey will let her leave. It’s not easy, with worrying about having another pain episode in front of Madam Pomfrey and what Snape is going through.

It takes almost ten minutes for Madam Pomfrey to do another diagnostic check. Lowering her wand, she sighs. “Though I would like to keep you here for the night, I can’t find any reason to. I want you to get plenty of rest and come and see me if you start feeling worse.”

Standing, Hermione nods. “Of course, thank you.”

As soon as the door to the Hospital Wing closes behind her, Hermione sprints to the dungeons. The lab is dark and empty. She lets out a groan of frustration. That would have been too easy. Hoping he’ll forgive her, she opens the door next to the ingredients cabinet—the one that leads to his quarters. Her footsteps are loud on the narrow wood steps. At the top of the staircase is another plain door. She knocks hard.

“Sir? Are you in there?”

There’s nothing but silence. This isn’t good. She knocks again, harder. Still only silence. Reaching for the handle, there’s a split recognition that it isn’t warded but it disappears when the door swings open fully. Snape is crumpled on the stone floor, black robes swallowing him and making him look like a spilt pool of ink.

Hermione falls to her knees next to him. “Snape, can you hear me?”

His only response is a pained groan, but she’s not sure he registers her presence. His eyes are barely open, and he twitches in pain. A memory from looking at the posters in her sixth-year Defence class resurfaces. She gasps. The Cruciatus. He’s been hit with the Cruciatus curse. Four times most likely, considering her pain episodes.

“Oh, god,” she whispers. How the hell did he manage to get back to his quarters?

Attempting to straighten out his seizing muscles, she moves him over to his back and makes sure his neck isn’t in an awkward position. His skin is ice-cold and clammy. Pulling out her wand, she hits him with a cleansing charm and a warming charm.

There is no cure for the effects of the Cruciatus curse, just ways to lessen them. The most important thing is to keep him warm; to stop his muscles from seizing up even more. Maybe she should call for Madam Pomfrey, or at least the Headmaster, but she would have a hell of a time explaining why she’s in her professor’s private quarters. No, she’s on her own. Standing, Hermione wills her hands to stop shaking and casts Mobilicorpus. Tightening the grip on her wand, she carefully manoeuvrers Snape to a nearby sofa. His forehead has a fine sheen of sweat on it again, and she spells it away. There’s a dark grey blanket thrown over the back of the sofa that she unfolds and puts over him. Hesitating a second, she then zaps it with a heating charm too.

Sinking onto the coffee table, Hermione scrubs a hand over her face. How many times has he had to deal with this himself? Her stomach twists. Probably too many. A strand of damp hair has fallen across his face, and she brushes it away. His eyes are still closed, and his breathing betrays that he’s fallen asleep. His body still twitches, but it looks like the warming charms are helping. She sighs. Good. It makes her feel less helpless and out of her depth.

For the first time, she takes notice that she’s in Severus Snape’s private quarters. Her cheeks flush. That’s something she didn’t think would happen and honestly, if its owner was conscious she wouldn’t be. It looks decidedly… normal. Not that she’s spent much time imagining what Snape’s quarters look like. It’s about the same size as the student dorms. The longer wall behind the sofa Snape is currently lying on is taken up by bookcases and a glass-fronted cabinet. Her fingers itch with wanting to browse his collection. A heavy wood desk, not dissimilar from the one in his office, sits underneath the window on the wall to her left. Beside the door hiding the staircase to his lab is another door, which she assumes leads to his bedroom. Her cheeks flush again.

She shouldn’t linger much longer. She shoots another look at the sleeping Potions Master. It doesn’t feel right to leave him, but it’s probably for the best. Harry and Ron might wonder where she is. Standing, Hermione makes sure the warming charm hasn’t faded from the blanket covering Snape. He’ll probably feel like shit when he wakes up. After a quick trip down to the lab, she checks his breathing and her warming charms once more before heading back to the common room.

Chapter Text

Severus awakens with a groan. Everything hurts. Blinking to clear the fogginess from his eyes, he realises he’s on the sofa. He’s uncomfortably warm, which seems to be due to the blanket covering him. Throwing it off, he slowly sits up. There are two vials on the coffee table, along with a piece of parchment. He stares at the words “breakfast first!” as the memories from last night start coming back in pieces. The moment he Apparated to Malfoy Manor, he knew it wouldn’t be a pleasant evening. The Dark Lord was in a terrible mood, and not even Bellatrix was spared from his anger.

Resting his elbows on his knees, Severus drops his head into his hands. He made it back to his quarters on sheer stubbornness. You only have to wake up drenched and freezing by the Hogwarts gates once to not want to do that again. The next thing he remembers is a soft voice and gentle hands, then warmth. He must have been unable to block her from feeling the pain. Fuck. Grabbing the vials, he removes the stoppers and smells them. Pain and headache relief. He downs them both and runs a hand over his face. Ignoring that his body is still screaming in pain, he stands. The world tilts, and he breathes deeply through his nose. He doesn’t have time for this. When he’s confident he can move without tipping over, Severus goes through his bedroom and into the bathroom.

He turns the water temperature to scalding and lets the water wash over him. Granger shouldn’t have had to see him like that. He’s glad he didn’t piss himself; he couldn’t look her in the eye if she had to deal with that too. The pain slowly melts away leaving only a slight ache in his temples. He’s taught through worse. When he’s putting on his robes, there’s a hesitant knock on the door to the lab.

Opening the door, he already knows who the guest is. Granger looks about as well as he feels.

“How are you?” she asks, fingers worrying the strap of her bag.

“I’ve been worse.” Severus moves aside and jerks his head. “What about you?”

“I’m all right.” She stops just inside the door, looking uncomfortable. Then she focuses on the empty vials on the coffee table, and her brows raise. “You need to eat something or the potions will burn a hole in your stomach.”

He rolls his eyes. “Duly noted.” He takes in the smudges underneath her eyes and her pale cheeks. “How did it affect you?”

Granger closes her eyes and breathes deeply. “It was horrible. I’ve never felt anything like it.” She looks straight at him. “I can’t imagine what it was like for you.”

“It’s not exactly my idea of a good time.”

She wets her lips. “I wasn’t sure if I should have called for Madam Pomfrey, but that would have raised questions we don’t want to answer.”

“A wise choice.” Severus clears his throat. “I want to thank you for aiding me last night. Though not necessary, it’s appreciated.”

“Of course. I’m sorry you had to go through that.” Her brows knit together. “What was the reason for…” she trails off.

“The Dark Lord does what he pleases, he doesn’t need reasons.”

Granger shudders. “I have to go to breakfast before Harry and Ron wonder where I am, but I just wanted to see if you were okay.” She gives him a pointed look. “I’ll see you in the Great Hall?”

Severus scoffs. “Piss off, Granger.”

She exhales a laugh. “That doesn’t work on me anymore, sir. I’ll see you later.”

When the door closes behind her, the silence seems more overbearing than usual.

-

In the days following Hermione’s trip to the Hospital Wing, Harry and Ron hover something fierce. It all culminates in her telling them off in the corridor before their Thursday afternoon Charms class. They mellow slightly after that, which she appreciates.

Friday is the last day of term, which is very evident in the elation of the student body. For Hermione, it’s—more importantly—the day she’s both been waiting for and dreading: the soul bond potion is ready for the last step. Because of the hovering, she’s found it difficult to spend time with Snape this week. She has to get away tonight, though, so she holds Ginny back when they’re clambering out of the portrait hole before the Christmas feast.

“I need a favour,” Hermione says, letting go of Ginny’s arm.

Ginny’s brow lifts. “Is this related to what’s been going on with you all term?”

Sometimes she hates how perceptive Ginny is. “Yes. There’s something I need to do after dinner, can you tell the boys I went to the library?”

“Of course.” Ginny’s face softens. “You’re all right, though? I don’t have to hex anyone?”

Hermione smiles. “I’m fine, I promise.”

She spends the Christmas feast decidedly not looking in Snape’s direction, and when she gets to the lab he is already there.

“Is it ready?” she asks, fishing a hair tie from her jeans pocket and pulling her hair back.

Snape lifts the stirring rod and kills the flame underneath the cauldron. “It just needs to cool, then we can transfer it into a pewter cauldron.”

Hermione nods. “I’ll prepare the ecanel root.”

Prepping her workstation, she glances at Snape. They’ve barely spoken since she went to check on him, but whatever glimpse beneath his hard exterior she got then has been boarded up. If she’s honest, he handled her seeing him like that better than she would have thought.

As she finishes slicing the ecanel roots, Snape transfers the potion to a pewter cauldron.

“Go ahead,” he says with a nod.

Taking a deep breath, Hermione adds the sliced ecanel root to the potion. After a few seconds, it turns a periwinkle blue.

She exhales a sigh of relief. “It’s not lilac.”

“It is not,” Snape says, sounding pleased. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, though. We still have to add the whisper collard.” He brings the cloche over to the workbench. Taking out his wand, he removes the magical cloche layer. The moment it vanishes, the whisper collard wilts.

“No!”

Snape slams his hand down on the worktop. “Fuck.”

Hermione glares at the wilted flower, willing it to come back to life. “It won’t bloom again for months. I assume we can’t put the potion under a stasis charm for that long?”

Sighing, he pinches the bridge of his nose. “No, we cannot. We need a new plan.”

She douses the flame underneath the cauldron. “And maybe a cup of tea with that.”

“There’s no eating or drinking in the lab.”

“I know that. Your office, maybe?”

Snape gives her a pondering look, then sighs. “Follow me, and don’t make a fuss.”

She’s expecting him to lead them out to the dungeons, but instead they go towards the door to his quarters. Suddenly feeling nervous, she shoves her hands into her pockets. This is certainly different than breaking in and finding him tortured and half-conscious on the floor. She lingers awkwardly by the door as Snape steps over to a small kitchenette she didn’t notice the last time she was here.

Snape puts a kettle on, then looks back at her with a raised brow. “Are you going to keep standing there?”

Hermione clears her throat. “Sorry.” She sinks onto the sofa and puts her hands on her lap. She can’t believe this is the second time in a week that she’s in his quarters. Now that she isn’t concerned about him dying in her presence, she notices new things about the space. Like the pair of dragon-hide boots sitting by the door or the mugs—presumably empty—on the desk.

“Milk?”

“Please.”

Putting her mug on the coffee table, Snape takes the armchair and crosses one knee over the other.

“The situation isn’t ideal,” he says, cradling his mug in his hands.

“I agree.” Hermione sighs. “If I remember correctly, the whisper collard won’t bloom again until mid-March.”

“I will reach out to Potions Masters I know and inquire if anyone is cultivating whisper collards. If not, there will be months until we can try the cure again.”

Hermione sips her tea. She’s not sure what else the soul bond will throw in their way over the next three months. “How are you keeping your emotions from me?” At his raised brow, she continues. “Because it looks like we’ll still be bonded for months, I’d like to find a way to keep my emotions private.”

Snape tilts his head, brow furrowing. “You haven’t felt them?”

“No. Other than… before Bedwas.”

“Hmm.” He drinks more of his tea. “I have a theory that my use of Occlumency is the reason for that.”

“You always keep your shields up?”

There’s a slight arching of his brow. “Yes. Are you familiar with Occlumency?”

“A bit. I tried to do a lot of research when you were teaching Harry, but there aren’t many resources in the library.”

Snape scoffs and stands. “Of course there aren’t. Occlumency is an obscure branch of magic, you’ll hardly find volumes on it in a school library.” He scans the bookcases, then removes a thin volume and hands it to her. “This will give you some guidance, but you can’t become proficient in Occlumency by reading.”

She swallows the urge to prove him wrong and instead accepts the book. “Thank you. Do you mind if I take this home with me over the holiday?”

“Of course.”

“Are you going home for Christmas?”

Snape snorts. “No, I will not. I will spend the holidays in these quarters getting a much-needed break from dealing with idiotic students.”

“We’re not that bad.”

His brow arches. “Earlier today, a second-year Hufflepuff added thirteen puffer-fish eyes to their swelling solution instead of three. He will be spending the start of his holiday in the Hospital Wing where Madam Pomfrey will attempt to shrink him back to his normal size.”

Hermione winces. “Point taken.” Finishing her tea, she puts the mug on the table. “Will you let me know if you have any luck with the whisper collard?”

“If you wish.”

“I do. I’ll be at my parents’ for the majority of the holidays.” Checking the time, she stands. “I should head back to the common room; I need to pack.”

Snape stands too. “You should go back through the lab, in case someone is in the corridor.”

Hermione smiles softly. “Happy Christmas, sir. I hope you get some rest.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “I will do my best. Merry Christmas, Granger.”

Before closing the door behind her, Hermione steals a glance back at him. He’s getting the mugs from the coffee table, hair falling into his face. Her fingers itch to push it back.

That’s inconvenient.

–

Pushing through the barrier at King’s Cross, Hermione scans the crowd for her parents. The platform is busy—Christmas time in London is not ideal—and she moves aside to let more students pass behind her. Then she spots them a bit away; her dad’s wearing the almost luminescent orange scarf she knitted him when she was on her S.P.E.W mission.

“Bloody hell, why are there so many people,” Ron huffs behind her, right before bumping her with his trolley. “Oops, sorry Hermione.”

“It’s okay. I don’t want to keep my parents waiting, but I’ll see you in a few days.”

After hugging her friends goodbye, she fights with the rest of the holiday-goers towards the exit.

“Hello, darling,” her mum says with a wide smile, placing a kiss on her cheek.

“All right, love?” Her dad takes the trolley from her. “How was the trip?”

“It was good, thank you.” They walk towards the exit, Hermione and her mum arm in arm while her dad pushes the trolley.

Crookshanks yowls loudly, showing his displeasure at being trapped in his carrier.

Her dad chuckles. “It’s good to see you too, Crooks. We’ll be home soon, don’t you worry.”

“We’ve saved putting the decorations on the tree for tonight,” her mum says, steering her around a harried family with rolling suitcases.

Hermione smiles. “That sounds great.”

A little over two hours later they pull up to the two-storey cottage Hermione grew up in. There are Christmas lights wrapped around the down pipe and a wreath hung on the front door, which makes it feel festive even though it’s pouring rain. The moment she steps inside, she feels herself relaxing. As much as she loves Hogwarts, there’s something about coming home. Especially around the holidays.

“Why don’t you go and unpack, and I’ll make us some tea?” her mum says, hanging her wet coat by the door and going to the kitchen.

“Yes, please.” Hermione bends and opens the latch on Crookshanks’ carrier. Once he’s free, he bolts into the hallway and then freezes. He looks around, sniffing, then disappears into the living room.

Her dad puts her bag on the floor. “I think we can sneak a mince pie or two while we’re decorating the tree.” He winks. “A cheeky start to the holiday, eh?”

Hermione smiles. “That sounds good.”

He smiles back. “It’s lovely to have you home, Hermione. I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too, dad.”

He jerks his head towards the stairs. “Up you get.”

The stairs still creak on the top steps. Dropping her bag on the bed, she sticks her hands in the back pockets of her jeans and looks around. It looks the same as it’s done all her life: desk by the window, bookcase overflowing with Muggle novels and magical textbooks, a mixture of moving and stagnant photographs on the walls. It’s like a battle between the two sides of her. After unpacking, she pulls on thick knitted socks and treads back downstairs.

They decorate the tree after dinner, with a fire crackling in the wood burner and Christmas music playing on the stereo. Crooks is stretched out on the sofa closest to the fire purring loud enough to be heard over the music. The tree has a mixture of ornaments from her parents’ childhood, paper ones she made in primary school and a multitude of others accumulated over the years.

“Only the most important piece left,” her dad says, picking up the sparkly star from the coffee table. “You’re a bit too grown up to sit on my shoulders to put the star up nowadays.”

Hermione chuckles. “I have been for a while, dad.”

“That’s something a father doesn’t want to think about; it means I’m getting old.” He winks and reaches to put the star on top of the tree. “Now it’s perfect.”

“Almost.” Her mum bends to turn on the plug socket, and the lights in the tree turn on. “There.”

“We did quite well for ourselves,” her dad says with a nod.

“We did,” Hermione says, but it’s swallowed by a yawn. “Sorry.”

Her mum strokes her back. “Why don’t you head to bed, Hermione? It’s been a long day.”

“I think I will.” Hermione hugs both her parents good night and gets ready for bed.

Closing her eyes, she inhales deeply and tries to relax her mind. She spent almost the entire train journey reading the book on Occlumency, and she’s eager to try some of the things she read about. The first step is learning to clear your mind, detach any emotions. Hermione lets her breathing grow heavy and soon she drifts into a deep sleep.

Chapter Text

“Good morning, darling,” her mum says with a smile when Hermione comes into the kitchen on Monday morning. “You’re up early.”

Hermione takes a seat at the kitchen table. “You know I’m not one for sleeping in.”

She was also woken up when it was barely morning by an almost overwhelming sense of guilt and disgust. The last time Snape was unable to hide his emotions from her, four innocent people were killed.

“Yes, but you are on holiday. Tea?”

“Please.”

Her mum puts on the kettle. “Your father is at the office already; he had an early root canal scheduled.” Turning to face her, she tilts her head. “Are you all right, Hermione? Something’s… different about you.”

Hermione imagines the reaction if she could tell her mum the truth. “I’m fine, honestly. I just have a lot going on with studying for my N.E.W.T.s.”

“I hope you’re not overworking yourself, love.” Her mum finishes the tea and brings it to the table. “What are your plans for today?”

“I have some reading to do for my Arithmancy class, and I’m also going into Diagon Alley to buy Christmas presents for Harry, Ron and Ginny. Is there anything you want me to pick up while I’m in London?”

“Oh, no, that’s all right. London is horrid this time of year. Best stay clear of it.” She kisses Hermione’s cheek. “Have a lovely day, and I’ll see you tonight.”

“Bye, Mum.”

Stifling a yawn, Hermione gets up to make toast. Crookshanks joins her, curling around her legs and demanding his breakfast.

“All right, grumpy,” she says and refills his food.

Hermione leisurely reads the morning paper while they’re having breakfast together. She spent the majority of the previous day playing Boggle with her dad, then they walked into the village for a pub lunch. While not comparable to an elf-made roast, she enjoyed the nostalgia. Crookshanks jumps onto the chair next to her and headbutts her arm.

“I have to leave you for a bit today,” she says, scratching behind his ear. “But I’ll buy you some fancy treats. Any preference?”

Crooks meows and licks her arm.

“Salmon, then.”

She doesn’t stay long in Diagon Alley; it’s crowded despite being early in the day, so she finds presents for the boys and Ginny and goes to the post office to arrange their delivery on Christmas Day before Apparating back to Eynsham. It’s not quite raining, but the air is so damp it sticks to her clothes and skin. She shivers. She’s looking forward to curling up by the fire with tea and a book.

An unfamiliar barn owl is perched on the tarpaulin-covered patio set, burrowing against the damp.

“Sorry, sorry,” she says as she approaches. “I hope you haven’t had to wait for long.”

The moment she takes the proffered letter, it takes off towards the sky. Whoever is writing to her apparently doesn’t want a reply. Unrolling the letter, Hermione’s pulse quickens. The word Granger is written on the envelope in familiar spiky handwriting. The letter feels heavy in her hand as she goes inside and hangs up her coat.

Sitting cross-legged on her bed, Hermione opens the letter.

Granger.

I’ve heard back from all but one of my contacts regarding the whisper collard, and unfortunately, no one has any specimen nor knows anyone who does. I will keep checking, but we should prepare ourselves for a negative outcome. In order to preserve my sanity (and yours) I implore you to use some of your time before the start of term to open the book you wrangled from my quarters.

Be careful.

S

She lowers the letter and sighs. It was perhaps expected, but she’s still disappointed. She sinks her teeth into her lower lip. Be careful. Be careful with learning Occlumency, or be careful in general? The warning combined with the emotions she felt from him last night implies something is going to happen. Her stomach turns. Another Bedwas, possibly. She hates this. Folding up the note, she puts it into the Occlumency book and heads back downstairs.

-

Because Hermione’s extended family is limited to a great aunt who lives in Australia—whom Hermione hasn’t seen since before she started Hogwarts—Christmas has always been a quiet affair.

She comes downstairs on Christmas morning to the smell of coffee and the sound of her dad singing along to a Christmas song on the radio. Rubbing her tired eyes—she was privy to another of Snape’s dreams last night and it’s left her with a strange feeling in her body—she takes in her dad making omelettes while wearing an apron featuring Father Christmas on a tropical holiday. Putting the omelette on a plate, he notices her.

“Morning, love. Happy Christmas!”

“Happy Christmas, Dad.” Hermione gives him a one-armed hug. “Where’s Mum?”

He kisses the top of her head. “Setting the table for dinner. Crookshanks is supervising the presents; I think he suspects there are treats there for him.” He pours more beaten eggs into the skillet. “Would you tell your mum breakfast is almost ready?”

“Of course.”

In the living room, her mum is elbow-deep in the Welsh dresser with a stack of the fancy crockery reserved for special occasions on the floor next to her. She surfaces holding a large serving tray, which she carefully puts to the side.

“Morning, darling.” Her mum smiles. “Is breakfast ready?”

“It is, yes. Do you want a hand with that?”

“Yes, please, if you could put these on the table. I’ll finish setting it up later.”

Setting the crockery on the dining table, Hermione looks over at the tree and chuckles. “Crooks, what are you doing?”

He meows a reply but doesn’t move from where he’s lying underneath the tree with his head on top of a box she knows has his favourite salmon treats. Crouching down, she scratches behind his ear. He flops onto his back and starts purring. She runs her hand over his soft stomach, making him purr louder.

Once breakfast has been consumed, they gather in the living room to open presents. Crookshanks is most pleased with his new toys and treats, and her parents seem to enjoy the presents she bought them. Halfway through the opening, Hedwig and Pigwidgeon arrive with presents from Harry and the Weasleys.

“Oh, those are lovely,” her mum says when Hermione shows them the star earrings she got from Ginny.

“Make sure to thank Mrs Weasley when you see her tomorrow,” her dad says, looking at the many mince pies and other baked goods now covering the coffee table. “We’ll be set until Easter.”

“I will,” Hermione says with a chuckle, reaching for a piece of fudge.

She finds herself wondering how Snape is celebrating Christmas; if he’s joining the feast in the Great Hall or keeping to his quarters. Knowing him it’s probably the latter. Her mother’s voice pulls her from her thoughts, and she puts Snape in the back of her mind.

-

Compared to the quiet and calm of her parents’ house, the Burrow on Boxing Day is a madhouse. All the Weasley children are home for the holidays, and the house is both loud and slightly chaotic. Hermione is squeezed in between Ron and Ginny on the sofa cradling a glass of mulled wine.

Molly sweeps in from the kitchen, waving a plate of mince pies. “Anyone for another mince pie? Hermione?”

“No, thank you, Mrs Weasley,” Hermione says. She’s slightly nauseated from all the food, and the warmth from the fire is making her sleepy.

Ron reaches across her for one of the baked goods. “I’ll take yours.”

“How’s school?” Bill says, taking the empty armchair next to Hermione. “Are you really doing seven N.E.W.T.s?”

Hermione chuckles. “I am, yes.”

He whistles low. “Impressive. Or mental. What are your plans for after school?”

“I haven’t given it much thought, honestly,” she replies, putting her empty mug on the coffee table. “I need to get through next term first.”

Bill nods. “Understandable. I think you’d be brilliant as a curse-breaker, so feel free to send me an owl if you have any questions.”

“Don’t you need a Potions N.E.W.T to be a curse-breaker?”

“Not necessarily; Arithmancy, Charms and Ancient Runes are more important. You’re not taking Potions?”

“No, I decided to focus more on Arithmancy.”

“You’re better off, mate,” Ron interjects. “Snape’s been fouler than usual for the past weeks. He’s a right git.”

“Professor Snape,” Hermione chides on autopilot.

Bill chuckles. “He hasn’t changed much since I was in school, then.”

“Nah. He was the DADA teacher last year, why couldn’t he have shoved off like the rest of them?”

His words feel like a stunner to the chest. Excusing herself, she slips upstairs.

Leaning her hands on the sink, Hermione breathes deeply and tries to will the tears to go back into her tear canals. Ron didn’t mean what he said, and he certainly wouldn’t have said it had he known the truth.

There’s a soft knock on the door.

“Hermione, are you okay?”

“I’ll be out in a minute,” Hermione replies. She carefully dabs at her eyes—since she’s wearing mascara for once—and does a check in the mirror before opening the door.

Ginny’s face is serious. “What is going on with you Hermione?”

Blinking, Hermione knows she has run out of options. “Let’s go to your room.”

They head upstairs to Ginny’s first-floor bedroom, where Hermione casts a Muffliato before sharing about the soul bond and the search for a cure.

“Bloody hell, Hermione!” Ginny’s face is pale. “This is why you’ve been odd this term?”

Hermione nods. “Dumbledore swore us to secrecy. I don’t think he’ll approve of me telling you, but honestly, I can’t keep it to myself anymore.”

“I totally get that. Is that why you were acting like you were tortured in the common room last week? Because of the soul bond?”

“Yes. And why I had to drop out of Potions. One of the side effects is we can feel each other’s pain.”

“Snape was tortured?” Ginny asks softly.

“He was, with the Cruciatus.” Hermione sighs. “It will be months until we can break the soul bond, so we’ll have to find a way to stop that from happening. It’s dangerous. So far we haven’t been lucky with information about the bond.”

“You could check at Grimmauld? I don’t know what kind of books Sirius’ mum held onto, but there could be something there.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Hermione confesses. “Thank you.”

Tilting her head, Ginny smirks. “How long have you fancied Snape?”

Hermione’s face flushes. “I don’t even know anymore.” She flops onto her back on the bed. “It’s horrible!”

Ginny snorts. “It’s not ideal, that’s for sure. But honestly, not that shocking.”

She lifts onto her elbows to glare at Ginny. “Not that shocking? I’ve just told you that I’m soul bonded with Severus bloody Snape and that I have feelings for him and you say it’s not that shocking?”

“Not the soul bond—that’s mental—but the feelings part. It makes sense you would go for someone older. As if a boy in your year could be your match intellectually.” Ginny shrugs. “Unless the feelings are a side-effect of the soul bond.”

Stomach twisting, Hermione sits up fully. “Do you really think so?”

“I don’t know. It could be.”

Someone pounds on the door. “Lupin and Tonks are here,” comes Ron’s voice.

“You can’t tell anyone,” Hermione says and gets off the bed. “Not even Harry. Especially Harry.”

Ginny shakes her head. “I wouldn’t, I promise.”

Ron looks suspicious when Ginny opens the door. “Why did you have a Muffliato up?”

“None of your business,” Ginny replies. “Tonks and Lupin are here? Why?”

He shrugs.

They head downstairs to the living room, where two chairs have been pulled out of nowhere to house Lupin and Tonks, whose hair is a pink bob for the occasion.

“Wotcher,” she says with a wide smile. “Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas,” Hermione says, taking a seat next to Harry.

Lupin smiles wanly. “Happy Christmas. I hope we’re not intruding?”

“Nonsense!” Mrs Weasley says, ready to hand the newcomers some mulled wine. “You’re always welcome here, Remus.”

“Thank you, Molly,” he says, accepting the glass.

“None for me, thank you,” Tonks says. She takes Lupin’s hand and intertwines their fingers. “We’ve actually got some news to share.”

Lupin clears his throat. “Tonks is pregnant.”

The high-pitched noise Molly lets out makes them all wince, and she is the first to envelop Tonks in a giant hug.

While Tonks answers questions about the due date—mid-July—and the sex—a boy—Hermione sees Lupin pull Harry aside. She can’t hear what they’re saying, but Harry is running a hand through his hair, and Lupin touches his shoulder. Harry breaks into a wide smile and nods, and the two men embrace. When they rejoin, Harry’s eyes are bright.

“Kitchen,” he mumbles, and Ron and Hermione follow him into the much quieter room.

Ron helps himself to another mince pie from the table. “What’s up, mate?”

“Remus asked me to be the godfather,” Harry says, sounding quite stunned at the notion.

Hermione touches his arm. “That’s brilliant, Harry.”

“I don’t know what a godfather does if I’m honest.” He pushes his glasses up his nose. “I didn’t really get a chance to experience it with Sirius.”

“It means you take care of the kid if the parents, you know,” Ron takes another bite of his mince pie, “die.”

She rolls her eyes. “Charming, Ronald.”

He pauses with another mince pie en route into his mouth. “What?”

She raises her eyebrows and looks over to Harry and back.

Ron lowers the mince pie and clears his throat. “You’ll do great, mate. You’ll be like the cool uncle who lets them do the things their parents don’t.”

“Thanks, Ron.” Harry still looks a bit dazed. Blinking twice, he seems to push himself out of it. “Yeah. Yeah. It’s just weird, you know?”

“I’ll say. Teachers having sex?” Ron snorts. “It’s enough to make you gag. And Tonks being pregnant means Lupin—”

“Leaving now!” Hermione goes back to the living room to not have to hear however Ron is finishing that sentence.

The conversation is still about the impending baby. She takes a seat next to Ginny.

“There’s another reason we’re here,” Lupin says once Harry and Ron have re-joined them. “I’ve got a message from Dumbledore.”

“From Dumbledore?” Mr Weasley says, brow furrowed.

Lupin nods. “Yes. He has called for an Order meeting at Grimmauld Place on Monday afternoon.” He looks over at Harry. “He’s requested you, Ron and Hermione be present.”

“Why?” Harry asks.

Hermione frowns. Other than the soul bond, Dumbledore doesn’t usually have business that involves her, and certainly not during the Christmas hols.

“He didn’t say.” Lupin runs a hand through his hair. “We haven’t had a full Order meeting since… Well since after the Death Eaters broke into Hogwarts in June.”

“Do you think something’s happened?” Charlie asks.

“I don’t know. It could be a precaution, but anything’s possible.” Lupin’s hand wanders to Tonks’, holding it tightly.

Hermione’s stomach sinks. The emotions she felt from Snape days ago. She’s been reading every word of the Daily Prophet since; both hoping and worrying she will read about an attack. She’s stopped herself several times from writing to him to make sure he’s all right. She’ll find out soon enough.

Chapter Text

The facades of number 11 and 13 Grimmauld Place move out of the way when Hermione approaches, revealing the run-down exterior of the Order headquarters. The door swings open to admit her, which never fails to make her feel like a character from a fairytale unwittingly stepping into their doom.

“Hello?” she calls out, not daring to be too loud for fear of waking Mrs Black’s portrait. Hermione doesn’t feel like being called a filthy blood traitor today.

The door to the dining room opens, and Lupin steps out. “Hermione? You’re here early; the meeting isn’t for an hour.”

She walks farther into the entrance hall, past the covered portrait. “I was hoping to take advantage of the library for a project I’m doing.”

“I see.” He smiles softly. “Go on up. I’ll have someone fetch you before the meeting starts.”

Hermione scrunches her nose as she walks by the mounted house-elf heads by the staircase. It always feels like they’re watching her. The drawing room is as dark and gloomy as she remembers, but at least it’s clean. The library isn’t extensive but she hopes there’s something she can use. If not, she’ll have to stop by Diagon Alley after the meeting. Opening one of the glass-fronted cabinets next to the fireplace, she looks through the titles. She picks out a handful and brings them over to the sofa. The wood groans when she sits, and she has a sudden image of the sofa swallowing her whole.

A good while later, she isn’t much wiser than when she started. Predictably, there isn’t anything in any of the books about soul magic or soul bonds. Closing the book a bit more forcefully than necessary, she puts it next to her. Nothing. Ginny can’t be right about her feelings not being real. Her chest constricts at the thought. Maybe it would be easier if they were. But she recalls Ron’s behaviour when he ate the chocolate cauldrons laced with a love potion last year: sappy, obsessive, declaring his undying love for a girl he’d barely talked to. That’s what potion-induced emotions look like. Not how she’s feeling. Tipping her head back, she looks up at the ceiling. The plaster is cracked in several places, and the ceiling rose is missing a large piece. This is not ideal. Having feelings for Snape is bordering on masochistic. Deciding she won’t find anything else, she puts the books back—and glowers at them for daring to disappoint her—and goes back downstairs.

The house is still quiet—she must have been quicker than she realised—but she finds Lupin in the dining room.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” he asks, closing the book he’s been reading.

“Unfortunately not.” Hermione sighs and takes a seat.

Lupin tilts his head. “What is your project about? Maybe I can help.”

Oh no. She wets her lips. Think, Hermione, think. There’s a chance he could: he was Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, after all.

“Have you ever heard of a potion or spell that can create real romantic feelings?”

Lupin frowns. “From what I’m aware, no. The concept of love—all facets of it—has been studied in the Department of Mysteries for centuries. Lily’s love was strong enough to save Harry’s life; love like that can’t be manufactured. What love spells or love potions produce is obsession, not love.”

“That’s what I was thinking too, but I haven’t found the research to back it up.”

Lupin chuckles softly. “I doubt you’ll find much, if any. Have you asked Madam Pince? I think she knows about every book in the Hogwarts library.”

“I haven’t yet, but I might. Thank you.”

“It’s no worries at all.”

Ten minutes later, the house is filled with people. Mrs Black has screeched her slurs several times and only quieted down after being hexed by the Weasley twins. As the dining room fills up, Hermione finds a place near the door with Ron and Harry.

“I didn’t know there were so many people in the Order,” Harry says, voice low. “I only recognise half of them.”

Hermione agrees: for every familiar face—Kingsley Shacklebolt, Dedalus Diggle, Elphias Doge—there is someone she doesn’t know. Lupin stands behind a seated Tonks, a hand on her shoulder while he chats to Mr Weasley.

None of them know what to expect, but there’s a tension and anticipation in the room that’s almost tangible. The chitter-chatter quiets down when Dumbledore sweeps into the room. Hermione’s pulse quickens when Snape slips in behind him, taking a place on the other side of the doorway. His black eyes glide across the room, and they meet hers for a second before he looks away. She exhales slowly.

“Thank you all for joining me today,” Dumbledore says, and Hermione straightens. “I have called you here to issue a warning. A few days ago, our safe house in Lichfield was compromised.”

There are gasps and murmurs throughout the room.

“Fortunately,” Dumbledore continues, “due to Severus’ intel of the situation, we were able to make sure the inhabitants had left when the Death Eaters came. When they didn’t find what they were looking for, they took their frustrations out on the house.”

Hermione glances at Snape. He’s leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, his face a blank mask. The emotions he wasn’t able to keep from her make sense now. She recalls their conversation after Bedwas; how heavily he carries the burden of playing both sides of the war.

“Because of this, I have reason to believe members of the Order will be targeted by Death Eaters, and thus I want you to be careful. I fear we will see more attacks before the end of the war.”

“I suppose your master hasn’t given you any indication of when these supposed attacks will be?”

It takes Hermione—and everyone else—a moment to realise Moody is talking to Snape.

Snape arches an eyebrow. “He has not. The Dark Lord doesn’t usually share his innermost thoughts with his followers. We will most likely learn of the attacks only before they’re meant to happen.”

Moody grunts. “That’s convenient.”

“Alastor,” Dumbledore warns.

“Your paranoia is getting tiresome,” Snape says, sounding borderline bored. Hermione can see his fingers stretching towards his wand. “If you spent half as much energy on locating Death Eaters as you spend doubting my movements, this war would be over already.”

Hermione hides her snort as a cough.

Moody’s magical eye whizzes around to fasten on her. She looks away. It always feels like he can see right through her with that eye.

“This is not the time to be divided by suspicion,” Dumbledore says. “It’s more important than ever that we stand united. Before we conclude this meeting, there is one thing I would like to say. Three young adults in this room have shown time and time again to be resilient in the fight against Voldemort.”

Beside her, Harry stiffens. She finds his hand and squeezes it.

“For that reason, I would like to offer them a place in the Order of the Phoenix.”

Hermione gasps.

“No!” Mrs Weasley’s voice is shrill. “Albus, you can’t be serious. They are children.”

“Molly…”

“I’m not a child…”

“This is absurd…”

Dumbledore holds up his hand, and the room goes silent. “Molly, they are adults in the eyes of the law. They have also faced dangers most of us couldn’t imagine.”

“They’re still in school!” Her face is twisted with emotion, and she shrugs off Mr Weasley’s hand on her shoulder. “You are going too far.”

“It’s their decision.” His tone is hard and final, and something about it makes Hermione shiver. His gaze turns to them. “There is a place for you in the Order, should you accept it.”

“I accept,” Harry says, voice determined and unwavering.

Ron nods. “Me too, I accept.”

Hermione wets her lips. There’s a flicker of worry in her stomach. From the corner of her eye, there’s a twist of black hair as Snape looks in her direction. “I accept.”

-

The train lurches to the right, but Hermione is prepared and is only mildly jostled from her seat. She turns a page in her Arithmancy book, but she’s having a hard time concentrating. Harry and Ginny are catching up with Luna while Ron is away somewhere being reunited with Lavender, but all Hermione can think about is standing in the crowded dining room at Grimmauld Place taking a wand oath that she will do what she can to aid the Order of the Phoenix in the war against You-Know-Who. She hasn’t told her parents—for some reason, she thinks they might not be happy about their only daughter joining a secret society.

The compartment door slides open, revealing a slightly dishevelled Ron. His reappearance can only mean it’s time to change into their robes. Ginny and Luna head to another compartment to change while the boys and Hermione turn their backs to each other.

“We’re going to Hagrid’s after the feast,” Harry says as he wrestles with his necktie.

“I’m not sure I can join, I need to go to the—”

“Library,” Harry and Ron say in unison.

Ron sticks his head out of the neck hole of his jumper. “Hermione, term hasn’t even started yet and the exams are months away. You can’t spend every free moment locked in the library.”

Rolling her eyes, she bats Harry’s hands away to fix his tie for him. “I don’t spend every free moment locked in the library.”

“Just about.” Harry flashes her a grateful smile when she steps back.

“You two should spend some more time in the library,” she says, fixing her cuffs. “The N.E.W.T.s aren’t too far off, you know.”

Ron snorts. “They’re months away. We have time.”

Once they’re back at the castle, they part ways. Hermione heads for the dungeons, all the while trying to suppress her eagerness to see Snape. It’s pathetic. She had hoped to speak with him after the Order meeting, but he left before the magical energy from the wand oaths had settled.

Shivering, she pulls her robes tighter around herself. She didn’t understand why Snape always wears so many layers until she started spending more time in the dungeons. And why is there always water dripping from somewhere? Heavy footsteps—too heavy to be her own—echo in the corridor. Her shoulders tense. Did she see Crabbe and Goyle at the station in Hogsmeade? With her hand hidden inside her robes, she can slide her wand out without it being noticed. The footsteps come closer. Her instincts scream at her to run, but she forces her footsteps to not betray her panic. Steadying her breathing, Hermione mentally goes over a list of offensive and defensive spells. Maybe a stunning charm. The footsteps are close. She has to act now.

Whipping around, she draws her wand. The spell dies in her throat as she registers the person in front of her.

Snape’s brow arches. “I hope the Head Girl isn’t doing magic in the corridors?”

“Of course not.” Hermione lowers her wand. “I was on my way to see you.”

He folds his arms across his chest. “Term hasn’t started yet, and therefore neither have my office hours, Miss Granger.”

Her cheeks flush at his tone, and it takes her an embarrassingly long few seconds to realise they are in public. Great job, Hermione. “I won’t take up too much of your time, I promise.”

“Having the misfortune of reading your essays for the past seven years, I highly doubt it, but very well. You get five minutes.”

Once his office door closes behind them, he scoffs. “You Gryffindors are as subtle as a griffin in a hen house.”

Hermione chuckles at the insult. “At least we know the soul bond isn’t changing us too much.”

His face remains impassive, and he leans back against his desk with his arms folded. “Was there anything in particular you wanted?” His tone—detached, professional—feels like she’s been dunked in the Black Lake.

A scribbled be careful in a letter she’s read multiple times flashes through her mind. It doesn’t feel like it was written by the same person standing in front of her.

She raises her chin. “I had hoped to talk to you after the Order meeting, but you left like a blast-ended skrewt was chasing you.”

“I don’t much enjoy seeing people throw their lives away.”

Hermione frowns.

Snape rolls his eyes. “You realise the wand oath you took was for life?”

“You think I shouldn’t have joined the Order?”

“I think you shouldn’t enter wand oaths lightly.” Snape scoffs. “I’m not surprised at how eagerly Potter and Weasley said it—they’ve never shown a great understanding of consequences—but I thought you were smarter than that.”

She glances at his covered forearm. “This isn’t like that. The Order are the good guys.” She’s not sure who she’s trying to convince; herself or him.

“Good and evil are relative. Dumbledore’s mission is to win this war by whatever means possible. Taking the oath makes you a pawn.”

“I suppose that makes two of us.”

There’s a beat, and then the corner of his mouth twitches. “Indeed.”

Hermione exhales a chuckle. She sits down in the Windsor chair in front of his desk. The legs are slightly uneven, and she gives him a look. No doubt done on purpose to make whoever had the misfortune to be called into his office uncomfortable. It’s a good thing she’s there voluntarily. She fixes the leg with a wave of her wand.

“It’s almost like you don’t want people in here,” she says as she leans back. The wood creaks against her shoulder blades.

He looks almost amused. “That doesn’t sound like me at all.” Snape studies her for a moment, head slightly tilted. Then he looks away and clears his throat. “I want to thank you for the Christmas present. It was very thoughtful.”

Her face heats up. It was an impulsive decision: while browsing Scrolls and Tomes for a new planner she spotted a new edition of Hagger’s Brews. The copy that seems to live in the lab is from 1975 and practically falling apart. She purchased it and arranged delivery before she could second-guess herself.

“I apologise for not returning the gesture,” he continues. “I didn’t think such a thing would be… welcome.”

“It’s okay. Your gift can be helping me with my N.E.W.T potions.”

This makes him chuckle, and she finds a place for it in a small cavern in her ribcage.

“I suppose that can be arranged,” he says.

Hermione crosses one knee over the other. “Might I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“When did you join the Order?”

Unfolding his arms, Snape grabs the edge of the desk. “I haven’t, at least not officially. You didn’t really think the Order was eager to include a Death Eater in their ranks in the middle of a war? They wanted me to join about as much as I did.”

“What changed?”

Snape hesitates. It catches her off guard. Though she’s learnt how to somewhat read him over the past months, he is usually too guarded for her to tell what he’s feeling.

“I spent months providing information that was useful to the cause,” he says, tone even. “I still wasn’t accepted after that, but tolerated.”

“Then why didn’t you take the wand oath?”

His knuckles tighten around the desk, but his face remains impassive. Hermione fears she’s pushed him too far

“A long time ago I made a promise to Dumbledore. Wand oath or not, I will do what he asks of me in this war.”

Something about the phrasing sends chills through her.

“You’ll be careful?”

Snape’s eyes soften, and he gives a slight nod. “As should you.”

Hermione smiles softly. “I will.”

Chapter Text

Hermione holds her breath as Snape inspects her potion. It’s her second time brewing it since coming back after the Christmas hols—the first time it was a bit on the pale side of ochre—so she wanted a do-over. Once this potion is done, she’ll have brewed all the potions on the syllabus.

“How many eel eyes did you use?” he asks, stirring the potion gently.

“Four. The potion was the proper colour after adding the fourth, so I didn’t add more.”

Lowering the stirring rod, Snape nods. “A wise choice. Potions is as much instinct and trusting what the potion is telling you as it is following the instructions.”

“So?” She can’t contain her glee. “What mark would you give it?”

His brow arches, and the corner of his mouth twitches. “You do remember you aren’t being marked on these potions?”

Leaning her hip against the workbench, Hermione tilts her head. “I do. But if this was Potion’s class, what mark would you give it?”

He taps his lips with his index finger. “Given that it’s your second attempt…”

“Snape!”

“So impatient,” he tuts, eyes glittering. “The potion’s satisfactory, Granger. That’ll have to tide you over.”

Her mouth widens into a smile. Since she started doing her brewing in the lab, Hermione’s learnt he abhors the standard marking system; a potion is either brewed correctly or not, to various degrees. Satisfactory is practically an Outstanding.

Snape rolls his eyes and steps away from the workstation. “Clean your station and piss off. I’ve got actual marking to do.”

Hermione feels like she’s floating as she cleans up and says good night to Snape. There are still plenty of students milling about in the corridors, but no one pays her any attention as she slips from the corridor off the entrance hall and towards the library. She slings her bag higher on her shoulder. She needs to go over her Transfiguration essay once more before the deadline, maybe she should—

“Hermione, wait.” Harry comes jogging towards her. His hair is even more of a mess than usual. “I’ve got to talk to you,” he says, slightly out of breath.

“Has something happened?”

He jerks his head. “Not here. Come on.”

Hermione tries to stop her mind from bringing up every possible scenario that could have happened as she follows him up several flights of stairs until they reach the Room of Requirement. It’s taken an appearance similar to the Gryffindor common room, and Ron’s sitting on a plush sofa with a weird look on his face.

“What’s going on?” Hermione asks, looking from Ron to Harry. They’re both acting oddly.

“Let’s sit,” Harry says.

“I’d rather stand. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Ron stands. “Why have you been sneaking down to the dungeons?”

The words feel like a rock falling onto her previous giddy feeling. Mouth falling open, her mind goes blank. She doesn’t know what to say.

“There’s no use denying it; we saw you on the map,” he continues.

The map.

Her eyes drift to the open Marauder’s Map lying on the coffee table. Her pulse quickens, burning through her veins.

She finds her voice through anger. “You’ve been spying on me?”

“No!” Harry’s gone slightly pale, green eyes wide behind his glasses. “We were worried. When we got back from Christmas hols we were gonna join you in the library, but you weren’t there. I checked the map and it said you were in Snape’s office.”

“That’s the definition of spying! And that was weeks ago, have you been following me on the map since then?”

“Don’t make this about us,” Ron says, tone hard. “This is about you lying to us and seeing Snape behind our backs.”

Hermione recoils. She can’t talk herself out of this. Fuck. She’s going to have to tell them. She doesn’t want to tell them. Her eyes burn, and she furiously blinks to deter the tears from coming.

She wets her dry lips. “Dumbledore swore us to secrecy.”

Ron pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fuck, I can’t hear this.”

“No!” She holds up her hand. “You’re the one who has been spying on me for weeks, and now you don’t want to hear the truth? That’s rich.”

“Go on, Hermione,” Harry says.

She exhales sharply. “Do you remember when I went to the Forbidden Forest in September to find the whisper collard plant?”

“Yeah.” Harry frowns. “Snape caught you before you could do the ritual, or whatever?”

Hermione nods. “But the whisper collard, it… burst.”

Ron makes a frustrated sound. “How does this explain why you’re—”

“It created a soul bond!” Despite her best efforts, hot tears trail down her face and make everything blurry. “That’s why I’ve been so busy; we’ve been trying to make a cure for the soul bond.” Her hand shakes as she wipes at her face. “It’s been torture lying to you, but I didn’t have any choice.”

“You’re soul bonded with Snape?” Ron’s voice is twisted with disgust.

“It’s not like I did it on purpose,” she bites back. Her throat is uncomfortably tight.

“Soul bond,” Harry repeats, frowning. “What does that mean?”

“That their fucking souls are tethered,” Ron spits out. “I thought they were a myth.”

Hermione sniffs. “They’re not.”

Harry runs a hand through his hair, making it stand up like he’s put his hand on an electric fence. “I still don’t understand why you didn’t tell us.”

“Dumbledore made us—”

“Bugger that! That’s never stopped Harry from sharing things with us before.”

“This is different, I’m not the only one involved.”

Ron snorts. “Do you know what I think? I think you were just ashamed to be tied to a Death Eater.”

“He’s not a Death Eater!” Hermione takes a deep breath, attempting to calm her trembling hands and racing heart. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I’ve already told you why I couldn’t.” She shakes her head. “I can’t believe you’ve been spying on me.”

“We weren’t spying!” Harry protests.

Hermione feels sick. “How could you?” she hisses, before storming out of the room.

-

Sneering, Severus peers into a cauldron. The potion should be a beautiful ochre colour, instead it resembles the mud on the Quidditch pitch.

“Mr. Weasley,” he says, lifting his eyes to the object of his ire. “Are you incapable of following instructions or are you doing it on purpose?”

Weasley mutters something Severus doesn’t catch, but the intention is clear. Next to Weasley, Potter is still stirring his potion and not making eye contact.

“Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr Weasley,” he hisses, “and a zero on today’s assignment.” He vanishes the ruined potion with a wave of his hand. Severus strides to the front of the class and whirls around. “You all might be under the impression that because your exams are still months away, you do not have to put in the effort in my class. If so, I would advise you to reconsider. I have no problem failing every single one of you if your work is not up to par.”

“Prick.”

Severus’ eyes narrow. “Would you care to repeat that for the class to hear, Mr Weasley?”

Weasley raises his chin. “No.”

He arches his brow. “No, sir.”

“No, sir,” Weasley bites out.

Merlin save him from moody teens. At least Potter has the sense to keep his mouth shut. A shame, really.

“Those of you with a viable potion; samples up front.”

Severus glances at each of the samples as they’re brought up. Too light, too dark, too green—Zabini didn’t grind the bat wing finely enough—too yellow. He sighs. It shouldn’t be too much to hope that all his N.E.W.T students pass their exams, and yet there are doubts. Taking the tray of samples, he goes to his lab so he can analyse and mark them later.

Predictably, Granger is in the lab. She’s crushing what smells like African red pepper with a pestle, eyes unfocused. She looks pale, and her mouth is downturned. True to her word, she’s been practising Occlumency, and he’s been spared getting hit with emotions not belonging to him.

He puts the samples onto a free workbench. “Have you got any idea what crawled up Weasley’s arse and died? He was more insufferable than usual today.”

Blinking, Granger seems to notice him for the first time. “Pardon?”

“Weasley,” Severus repeats. “His impression of a petulant five-year-old was quite impressive.”

“Oh.” Her grip tightens around the pestle. “He and Harry know about the soul bond.”

Severus’ jaw clenches. “I see. Did you all have a good laugh at my expense?”

Her eyes shoot to his. They’re red-rimmed and sad, and as she speaks they start to water. “I wouldn’t do that to you. I had to tell them: they figured out I was coming here to see you.”

Severus averts his eyes, and he catches the movement of her hand wiping at her face. There’s a hollow feeling in his chest he doesn’t enjoy. Her shields must be slipping.

“How did they find out?”

Granger sniffs. “The bloody map. They knew I’ve been lying about being at the library, so they’ve watched me on the map since the start of term.”

“Fuck.”

Severus pinches the bridge of his nose. Albus needs to know about this. While he hasn’t shown any inclination to access Potter’s mind lately—and who can blame him—the Dark Lord still shares a bond with Potter and could do so easily. If that were to happen, it wouldn’t take long until the soul bond was discovered.

Looking back at Granger—she’s composed herself slightly, though her eyes are still glassy—he sighs. “I assume they didn’t take the news well?”

“We’re not on speaking terms at the moment. I can’t look past that they spied on me for weeks instead of talking to me. I love them both, but sometimes… I don’t know.” Looking down, she grimaces. “I think I might have ruined this pepper.”

“You could always sprinkle it over their food.”

This earns him a half-smile.

Severus clears his throat. “I need to speak with the headmaster about this. Can I trust you not to blow up the lab in my absence?”

“Yes.” Granger vanishes the ruined pepper. “Why are you telling him?”

“Because Potter’s inability to keep his thoughts private has already got one person killed, and I don’t fancy it happening again.”

Her eyes widen slightly. “If You-Know-Who finds out about the soul bond…”

“He won’t,” Severus says sharply. “I’ll Obliviate Potter if I must.”

“Let’s hope Professor Dumbledore finds another solution. Somehow I think an Obliviate would be frowned upon.”

“Spoilsport.”

Granger’s face softens. She looks less miserable than a few minutes ago, which he should not be noticing or caring about.

Severus clears his throat. “There’s a staff meeting tonight, so I won’t have time for any brewing.”

“All right. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

He nods tersely before sweeping out of the room.

-

“Good work today, everyone,” Professor Delacour says, returning the desks to their usual place. “I want ten inches on the Bombardment spell and its variations by the next class.”

Hermione writes the assignment in her planner before sliding it into her bag. Glancing up, she sees Harry’s back as he and Ron leave the classroom. She tries to ignore the hurt in her chest. It’s been almost a week of them avoiding her—and her avoiding them—and she’s only just started to get over the feeling of being constantly on the verge of tears.

“Hermione, a moment please.” Professor Delacour tucks her wand up her sleeve and approaches Hermione’s desk.

“Yes, Professor?”

She chuckles. “I don’t think I will get used to being called that. It makes me sound more older and distinguished than I am, no?”

Hermione smiles. “I think it suits you.”

“Merci. I wanted to ask you if everything’s all right? I have noticed lately you’re not spending time with Harry and Ron.”

“It’s nothing,” Hermione says, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Just an argument.”

“I understand. I’m sure whatever it is will resolve soon.”

If only it was that easy. But Hermione can’t say that, so instead she smiles and nods. “Me too.”

When she gets to the Great Hall for lunch, she scans the Gryffindor table for a free seat. Shockingly, there’s no free one by Harry and Ron. Further along the table, Ginny is waving her over. The lump in her throat disappears when she sinks down next to Ginny.

“Thanks, Gin,” Hermione mumbles, moving her bag to the side and decidedly not looking in Harry and Ron’s direction. This reminds her of when Harry’s Firebolt was confiscated and they gave her the silent treatment for a month.

“They’re still being twats?” Ginny asks, pouring pumpkin juice into her goblet.

Hermione hums in reply and reaches for some roast chicken. Looking towards the staff table, she meets Snape’s eyes. He arches his brow, and she shakes her head softly.

“Do you want to study with me and Luna later?”

“Thank you, but I’ve got to work on my project,” Hermione says. Because she doesn’t have to lie anymore, she’s spent more time in the lab without feeling the guilt gnawing at her.

Ginny smirks. “Good luck.”

Hermione takes care not to glance back at the staff table. She’s got a free period after lunch, so once she’s finished she says goodbye to Ginny and heads for the library. Despite her conversation with Lupin over the Christmas hols, she still wants to see if she can find any books about manufactured romantic feelings or anything about soul bonds or soul mates.

Madam Pince isn’t much help and only gives Hermione an incredulous look when she inquires for books about soul magic. Determined, Hermione goes to the section with more obscure branches of magic. The carpet there isn’t as worn as in the main sections; the colour hasn’t faded as much as in the main part and is soft enough to muffle her footsteps. She has already looked through this selection of books, but that was months ago when her focus was learning about what the soul bond meant. She wasn’t very concerned at the time that she would start fancying her Potions professor. Huffing to herself, she slides The Summons of Soul Magic from the shelf.

“Hermione?”

Jerking, the book slips from her hands and lands on the carpet with a low thud. Picking it up, she looks at the newcomer.

Oh. “Hello.”

Harry looks uncomfortable, his hands stuck in his trouser pockets and shoulders slumped. “I know you’re still upset, but I, uh, wanted to say that Dumbledore spoke with me. About the…” His hand leaves his pocket and rubs at his neck. “He’s going to help me get better at Occlumency. I wouldn’t want to risk putting you in danger.”

“Okay.” She pulls the book close to her chest. “Thank you.”

He tries for a smile. “Of course. I, uh. You’re being careful?”

Hermione nods. “I am.”

“Good, good. I should,” he jerks his head, “but I just wanted to tell you.”

Once he disappears behind the stacks, Hermione sighs and leans against the bookcase.

Chapter Text

Severus is about to start doing his marking for the night when there’s a knock on the door to the lab. He frowns. It can only be Granger; no one else has access to the lab. But what does she want? Putting his quill on the desk, he rises. Sure enough, Granger standing on the other side of the door, bag slung over her shoulder.

“Hi,” she says hesitantly. “Would you mind if I studied in here tonight?”

Severus arches a brow. “Has the library suddenly burnt down? I wasn’t aware.”

She tucks her hair behind her ear. “I tried, but it’s too crowded. Harry and Ron chose today of all days to set foot in there, too.”

Though it’s probably a bad idea, he steps aside. Granger puts her bag on the floor next to the sofa and straightens her jumper.

“I’m marking essays, so if you see me set something on fire, it’s of no concern,” Severus says, moving over to his desk.

Granger chuckles. “I’ll leave you to your pyromania.”

They both settle in with their work in silence. He has become used to Granger’s mannerisms when she’s researching or deep in thought and barely pays them any mind.

Severus scribbles an Exceeds Expectations on the last essay in the pile and flexes his hand. A frustrated huff comes from the sofa. When he looks over, there’s a flicker of something near his ribs. Granger’s leaning her face in her hand while furiously writing something on the parchment in front of her. A smudge of ink on her middle finger has transferred to her cheek, and a curl keeps brushing against it with the movement of her writing. His eyes linger on that curl for a moment. Then he shakes his head and stands. What the fuck is he doing?

He puts the kettle on, pushing any thoughts about Granger’s hair from his mind. He’s adding a splash of milk to her tea when she speaks.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any books about banshees? I just realised I didn’t check out any books about it before coming here.”

“I do.” Severus brings the mugs over to the coffee table. “Is there anything in particular about banshees you’re looking for?”

She smiles a thanks as she accepts the mug. “Whatever you have is fine, please. Unless you only have Lockhart’s book on banshees, because in that case, I’ll go back to the library.”

Severus scans the Dark Arts section for the book he’s looking for. “Lockhart’s a twat. I had the displeasure of teaching him for his N.E.W.T years. He’d yet to start taking credit for other people’s achievements, but he was the most conceited and arrogant student I’ve ever taught.”

Granger chuckles. “You must have been delighted when he joined the staff.”

“Merlin, don’t remind me.” He takes a seat in the armchair and hands her the book. “I almost quit teaching that year after having to listen to another of his self-important rants. What people saw in him, I’ll never know.”

Accepting the book, Granger averts her eyes.

He snorts. “Don’t tell me you had a crush on him?”

“I was twelve; you can’t judge me for that.”

“I can and I will.”

Her eyes glittering, Granger opens the book. “Ignoring you now, need to study.”

Severus sips his tea.

A few minutes go by, then she looks at him. “Don’t you have marking to do?”

“I thought you were ignoring me?”

Her mouth twitches into a smile. “I was, but it’s—”

There’s a rapid knock on his door.

Fuck. Fuck.

They stand at the same time.

“I assume it’s frowned upon to have a student in your quarters?” Granger says, hastily gathering her books.

“That would be correct.” Severus grabs her mug and shoves it onto the shelf underneath the coffee table, then opens the door to the lab. “Let’s not tempt fate.” Her shoulder brushes against him when she steps onto the staircase. Jaw clenching, he closes the door behind her and takes a steadying breath.

There’s another knock.

Severus flings it open. “What?”

Minerva is not impressed. “Charming, as always. Who were you talking to? I thought I heard voices.”

“My conscience,” he hisses. “Was there something you wanted?”

“Yes. May I come in or are we to have this conversation in the corridor?”

“Of course.” He steps aside. “Tea?”

-

Leaning against the stone wall next to the hastily closed door, Hermione hardly dares breathe. Her heart is racing, and her knees give a discouraging shiver. From the other side of the door, she can hear voices. First Snape’s, then a female voice. When she realises it’s Professor McGonagall, she bites her lower lip hard. She can’t imagine McGonagall’s reaction if she was caught in Snape’s quarters. She should leave; go back to the library or the common room and finish her studying, but her legs refuse to move. She can’t hear what Snape and McGonagall are talking about, only the muffled sound of their voices.

After some time—she isn’t sure how long—there’s the sound of a door opening and closing, and the voices stop. She waits another minute before quietly knocks on the door before pushing it open. Snape is alone, leaning against the back of the sofa and pinching the bridge of his nose. Hermione isn’t sure what to say, so instead she hovers by the open door.

Exhaling a sigh, Severus looks in her direction. “I thought you’d gone,” he says softly.

Hermione wets her dry lips. “I still need to work on the banshee essay. And I didn’t get a chance to finish my tea.”

He exhales a chuckle. “That’ll be cold by now. I hope you’re not suggesting heating it by magic? That’s barbaric, even for you.”

She smiles. “As if I would.”

Stepping fully into the room, she closes the door.

-

Over the next weeks, it becomes a habit for Hermione to do her studying in Snape’s quarters. His book collection proves useful not just for her Defence Against the Dark Art homework but also Herbology and Ancient Runes. Harry and Ron make no further attempts to get back in her good graces, and when she’s not spending time with Snape, Hermione hangs out with Ginny.

Hermione wraps her scarf around her neck and tucks the ends into her coat. Crookshanks is doing the only appropriate thing for a Sunday afternoon: snoozing on her pillow without a care in the world. She strokes his side—to which he gives no reaction—and grabs her mittens before leaving. The letter she penned earlier is safely tucked in her inside coat pocket, ready to be sent off.

The snow glitters in the rays of the setting sun, and despite it being bloody cold, Hermione enjoys the way it burns in her nose and creates a layer of ice on her hair. The path to the owlery has been cleared recently, but Hermione still walks carefully. Broken bones might heal quickly but they’re still painful. The stone steps are more slippery, and she almost takes a tumble near the top. She hisses at the stinging in her palm where she catches herself against the rough stone exterior of the owlery. Once inside, many eyes watch her remove her gloves and inspect her palm. Just a bit red; no marks or injuries.

“Hello,” she says to the owls and takes out the letter. “I know it’s probably nicer to stay in here, but would anyone like to deliver this letter for me?”

A snowy owl flies down to the perch, eagerly holding her leg out. It makes Hermione’s stomach feel heavy.

“I don’t think Harry would like me using you,” she says, stroking Hedwig’s head. “But thank you for the offer.”

Hedwig gives an offended hoot and flies off, almost smacking Hermione in the face with her wing in the process. Hermione sighs. Someone else not talking to her. Lovely. There’s a hoot and a large barn owl sweeps down and lands on the perch by the door. It holds its leg out towards her.

“Thank you.” Hermione grabs a leather leg band and puts the letter inside. “This is for my parents; Mr and Mrs Granger in Eynsham. It’s my mother’s birthday tomorrow, you see.” She ties it to the owl’s leg and strokes it on the head. “They’ll have a treat for you when you arrive, for your trouble.”

The owl flexes its feathers and takes off through the hole in the ceiling.

Bundling up again, Hermione leaves the owlery. She’s even more careful on the steps this time, so she—

“Hello, Hermione!”

“Aaah!”

Hermione’s foot slips from underneath her, and she slides painfully down the rest of the steps before landing on her back in the snow. Eyes closed, she doesn’t move. Ow.

“Hermione!”

Gingerly sitting up, she looks at Hagrid. “Hi, Hagrid.”

“Blimey, that looked painful. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, thank you. Just bruised.” She grimaces at the wet seeping through her jeans.

“Here.” Hagrid offers her his hand, and the action of pulling her to her feet almost makes her topple over. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Hermione brushes the snow from her bum. “It’s okay. I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Harry and Ron were just by for a cuppa, but they said you were too busy to come with. I found that odd, seeing as it’s Ron’s birthday and all.”

There’s a hint of hurt in his voice that makes Hermione grit her teeth. What twats.

“I didn’t know they were coming to see you,” she says as they start walking back to the castle. “We’re not on speaking terms at the moment.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Do you want me to have a word with them?”

“That’s not necessary, but thank you.”

He harrumphs. “Those boys… I remember how upset you were when they stopped talking with you when the business with Ron’s rat happened. They’ll come to their senses soon, don’t you worry.”

Hermione finds that unlikely. When they get into the entrance hall, she stops.

“It was nice seeing you, Hagrid. I’ll try to come by for a visit soon.”

His smile is almost hidden in his bushy beard. “There’s always a cuppa ready for you.”

Then he claps her shoulder hard enough to make her knees buckle and goes up the grand staircase. Stretching, Hermione winces. She most likely has a lovely bruise on her arse now from falling, but she might let that self heal. She isn’t too keen on dropping her trousers in the Hospital Wing.

-

Entering the lab, Severus falters, hand still on the door handle. Startled by the door, Granger looks back at him. Her hair is put in a sensible plait, as it often is for brewing, but a shorter piece is caressing her cheek. His jaw clenches.

“Hello,” she says with a small smile. “Have you done the soul bond stirring yet?”

Severus steps into the room. “I was about to, but by all means.”

He watches the potion as she does, making sure there’s no change in colour or texture as she stirs the required amount. It remains unchanged, and Severus relaxes slightly. They’re only on day two of the two weeks of daily stirring, so several things can still go wrong.

Granger exhales deeply as she removes the stirring rod. “I always worry I’ll do it wrong and ruin the potion.”

“You’ve managed so far.” Severus steps back, squares his shoulders. He pushes down the things he doesn’t want to admit, can’t admit. “Are you staying?”

“I was planning on it. Why?”

“I would have thought you could find something better to do with your Friday evening than spending it in the dungeons.”

Her cheeks flush slightly. “I like spending time here.”

Severus scoffs. “If you’re staying, you might make yourself useful. We need a pewter cauldron, standard size.”

Brown eyes lighting up, Granger gets a cauldron while he moves to a free workstation.

“What are we brewing?” she asks, placing the cauldron on the worktop.

“You tell me. First, we need two fluid ounces of baneberry extract.”

Granger fetches the bottle and measures out the amount they need into the cauldron.

“Now a bitter root, sliced into five-millimetre slices. But don’t put it into the potion yet.”

Severus oversees her knife work, and she’s not fast but very meticulous. Better than most of his N.E.W.T students. Other N.E.W.T students, he reminds himself. If things were different, she would be in his classroom twice a week attempting to impress him with overly long essays.

He clears his throat. “What are the properties and uses of bitter root?”

Granger glances at him. “Despite the name, bitter root refers to the entire plant. It grows low to the ground, and its flowers are used in different magnifying potions. The root can be used in both healing potions and other kind of restorative potions.” She puts the knife on the cutting board. “You’re really not telling me what we’re making?”

“No. Next is pomegranate juice and infusion of wormwood.” Severus turns the flame on low underneath the cauldron. “Three fluid ounces of each, please.”

The potion makes a sizzling sound when the pomegranate juice hits it, and changes colour to a deep red.

“What potion do you think we’re making?” he asks when she adds the wormwood infusion.

“I haven’t the foggiest.”

“Come on, Granger. Think. Use that brilliant brain of yours.”

Tilting her head, she pulls her bottom lip into her mouth and furrows her brow. He can practically see her mind whirring; going over years of lessons and textbooks. Then she looks at him, eyes glittering.

“Is the next ingredient valerian root?”

“It is.”

Granger gives a triumphant laugh. “Oculus potion!”

Lips curling, he nods. “Ten points to Gryffindor.”

She smiles widely and he notices how close they’re standing. There’s a feeling somewhere in his chest, something that reaches and yearns. His fingers flex against the worktop. Granger’s smile fades slowly, leaving her lips slightly parted. Severus inhales sharply. Over the pomegranate juice and bitter root is another scent, something light and floral. Cherry blossoms, perhaps. Does he lean in or does she? Her eyes have golden flecks that feel like warmth spreading through his cold centre.

“Tell me to stop.” His voice doesn’t sound like his, almost like a plea.

Granger—Hermione—Granger—sighs, and her breath fans against his face before their lips meet. Severus melts into her touch. His hand meets warm skin and soft hair as it curls around her neck. In return, she presses her lips more firmly against his. Her hand covers his on the worktop. The softest sound leaves her throat, a mix between a sigh and a moan, and it hits him like Fiendfyre.

Tearing away from her, Severus spins around and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fuck. Fuck.”

There’s the sound of the burner underneath the cauldron being turned off, then Granger speaks. “You really know how to make a girl self-conscious. I can’t have been that bad?”

He gives a broken chuckle. “This whole situation is bad.”

“Oh.”

Trying to calm his breathing, Severus wets his lips. They still taste like her. Fuck. He’s ruined.

"You should leave." The words escape his mouth without permission. He fixates his gaze on his boots. There's a scuff mark on his left one. He should fix that.

She doesn't respond, but a few seconds later he hears the brick wall open into an archway. She leaves, taking all the warmth and brightness from the room with her. When the last bricks rearrange themselves behind her, Severus growls and sweeps the contents of the worktop to the ground. The potion base splashes against the floor and his clothes, as useless as pumpkin juice.

Chapter Text

“You all right?” Ginny asks the next morning as Hermione almost pours orange juice over her muesli.

“Yes,” Hermione lies.

After leaving the lab last night, she held it together long enough to reach a hidden alcove on the second floor before bursting into tears. She sat there for what felt like hours, letting the pain and humiliation run through her and wet her hands and the stone floor. For once, she wasn’t concerned about Severus feeling her emotions. A part of her relished making him feel her pain and hoping it hurt him as much as it hurt her.

Hermione sips her orange juice—from a glass, not her muesli. It’s taking all her willpower not to glance towards the staff table. She still hasn’t decided how to act around Severus—she can’t think of him as anything else after what happened—or how she feels about the situation she now finds herself in. Setting her glass down, she glances at the staff table. The seat next to McGonagall is empty.

“Luna wanted to go to Dogweed and Deathcap first, is that okay with you?” Ginny asks, spreading marmalade on her piece of toast.

Hermione pushes her muesli bowl away. She’s lost her appetite. “Sure.”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” she continues casually, “I’ve told Harry and Ron we’re meeting them at the Three Broomsticks at half 11.”

“What?”

“It’s been almost two months; it’s time for you to talk and forgive each other.” Ginny gives her a look that’s reminiscent of Mrs Weasley when the twins get up to trouble—the one that means there’s no room for argument.

She’s actually grateful for Ginny intervening. Regardless of how much they hurt her, Hermione misses her best friends. It’s mainly been stubbornness keeping her from being the first one to reach out.

“Third-year students, please see me in the entrance hall to show your permission slips for Hogsmeade,” Professor McGonagall calls out, walking down the length of the Great Hall towards the doors.

After finishing their breakfast, Hermione and Ginny follow the throng of students out of the castle. Up ahead, Harry glances back at them before he’s swept away by the crowd.

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” Hermione asks Luna as they step into Dogweed and Deathcap.

“No.” Luna runs her hand over the leaves of a Drillanium plant. “I just enjoy spending time with the plants.”

It’s a little odd, perhaps, but Hermione has got used to Luna’s quirks. The interior of the shop is light and bright, with vines growing up the walls. Every surface is covered in greenery. While Luna is talking with the proprietor, Hermione looks around. Within ten minutes, she’s bored. Ginny seems as interested in the plants as Luna is, so Hermione looks around alone some more. When they’re nearing the hour mark, she gives up.

Walking over to where they’re still conversing about prickly windroots, Hermione touches Ginny’s sleeve.

“I’m heading over to Tomes and Scrolls, but I’ll meet you at the Three Broomsticks later?”

Ginny raises her brows. “Will you actually be at the Three Broomsticks later?”

“I will, I promise.”

“All right,” Ginny says. “See you in a bit.”

Hermione leaves the shop and heads down the High Street. It’s started to drizzle, and she buries her lower face in her scarf. The street is busy with both students and locals, and she doesn’t even pretend she’s not looking for Severus. He told her earlier this week he would be chaperoning, but so far there’s no sign of him. It makes her chest hurt, imagining him avoiding her because of what happened last night.

The bell above the door in Tomes and Scrolls is unreasonably cheery, but Hermione is happy to be out of the rain.

“Good day, Miss Granger,” Mr Walsh, the shopkeeper, says with a smile. “Do you want me to wrap up your books?”

Her smile falters slightly. The books. She purchased two rare books on soul magic—spending way too much money doing so—to better understand the soul bond between her and Severus. She’s not as keen anymore to read them.

“Not yet, thank you. I’d like to browse first.”

Mr Walsh nods. “Of course. They’ll be here when you’re ready.”

Disappearing between two stacks, Hermione inhales deeply. There truly is no better smell than books. The shop is set up similar to a maze, with nooks and crannies filled to the ceiling with books. She’s reading about Babylonian numeral magic when her watch starts beeping. Turning off the alarm—she was serious about being on time to the Three Broomsticks—she puts the book with the others she wants to purchase and heads back to the till.

As she’s getting her change, the bell above the door rings.

“Good day, Professor,” Mr Walsh says. “I’ll get your books in a minute.”

“I’m not in a rush, Mr Walsh,” says the newcomer.

Hermione’s heart races. “Have a nice day, Mr Walsh,” she says through a forced smile before turning to leave.

Severus stands just inside the door, face impassive. She doesn’t expect she looks as unaffected as he does.

Hermione raises her chin. “Professor.”

Severus nods slightly. “Miss Granger.”

Grip tightening on her bag, Hermione brushes past him. Once out in the cold drizzle, she inhales shakily and blinks against the tears burning in her eyes. She needs to pull herself together. What did she expect would happen? He’d sweep her up and kiss her against the till with Mr Walsh watching? Pushing down all thoughts of Severus, she puts her shrunken bag of books into her coat pocket and heads towards the Three Broomsticks.

The explosion knocks her to the ground.

Hermione blinks, eyelids heavy. Her ears are ringing. She stands slowly, cataloguing where she’s hurting. Her palms sting from where they’ve hit the cobblestones, and there’s a sharp pain in her hip. Looking around, she frowns. Spintwitches Sporting Needs has a gaping hole in the facade, and debris is slowly raining down on the high street. People are exiting nearby shops, gathering by the damaged wall to ascertain the damage. She blinks again. Someone grabs her arm, and she meets Ron’s blue eyes. Harry and Ginny stand behind him, faces equally worried.

Ron’s voice slowly reaches her, loud and frantic. “Hermione! Are you all right?”

She adjusts her twisted coat and brushes her hair from her face. “I think so. What happened?”

“I don’t know.” Ron runs a hand through his hair. “There shouldn’t—”

With the loud crack of Apparition, a dozen hooded figures materialise near the apothecary. Someone screams, then spells are flying. One spell barely misses where she’s standing.

“Run!”

Hermione runs.

Now that the ringing in her ears has stopped, she can hear everything. The footsteps of the Death Eaters following, spells hitting buildings and bodies, her frantic breathing. Looking over her shoulder, she shoots off a stunning spell that her opponent deflects easily. She fires another spell, which throws a dark cloud around the Death Eaters. Ducking into an alleyway, she throws up a Notice-Me-Not charm.

Her back pressed against the wall, she tightens the grip on her wand. She has no idea where Ron, Harry or Ginny went or how many Death Eaters are currently in Hogsmeade. In the distance, there are sounds of the fight. Hermione wets her dry lips. Does the Order know about the attack? Or the Aurors? Someone must have alerted the castle. Heart racing, she prepares to drop her charm. She can’t stay here.

She steps out of the alleyway and comes face to face with a Death Eater. Hermione shoots off a stunning spell that her opponent deflects easily. She barely has time to get a shield up before a curse hits it. Her hand shakes, but she manages to maintain it. Her heart pounds as spells fly through the air. She finally gets a hit in, and the Death Eater topples over with a grunt. Rushing over, she kicks his wand away.

“Hermione,” comes a weak voice from nearby.

She whips around, wand raised.

A trio of third-years hurry towards her. She only recognises Aurora, who’s in Gryffindor. One of the other girls is limping, and they’re all dirty and wide-eyed.

“Are you injured?” Hermione asks, looking around for any Death Eaters.

“I fell,” the limping girl says and sniffles. “I think I sprained my ankle.”

Hermione rubs her forehead. “You should try to get back to the castle. Can you walk?”

“Hermione, look out!”

Pain radiates from her side. Crying out, she spins and throws up a shield. Two Death Eaters advance, wands raised. They start with a volley of spells that make her shield quiver. Moving back, she fights against her spasming lungs. She can’t cast while her shield is still up. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“It’s over for you now, Mudblood,” one of the Death Eaters spits out. She recognises the voice, but she can’t place it.

There’s a crack of Apparition, which is enough of a distraction for the Death Eaters that they stop casting. Hermione drops her shield and hits them with a stunning spell. It misses as they Disapparate.

Kingsley touches her shoulder. “Are you all right, Hermione?”

“I’m fine,” she says, lowering her wand. “I was hit with...something, but I don’t think it’s too bad.” Twisting to check on Aurora and her friends, she gasps in pain. Her head spins and a wave of nausea rolls through her. Her vision goes black.

-

Hermione wakes up confused. Blinking, she studies the ceiling in the Hospital Wing. She runs her tongue over her teeth. Her front ones are numb, but she feels the pain in her tongue when she presses it against them. She’s not lost them. That’s good. Turning her head, she frowns. Ron’s sitting by her bed, head in his hands. He looks up at her with pained blue eyes, and it comes back to her. Hogsmeade. The attack.

“What happened?” Hermione attempts to sit up. There’s a pain in her side that makes the action uncomfortable, and she winces.

Ron wets his lips. “You don’t remember?”

“I remember the attack.” She pushes her loose hair back—she seems to have lost her hair band. “I fainted?”

“Yeah.” Ron runs a hand through his hair. “You took a pretty nasty spell to the ribs; it’s still healing.”

Madam Pomfrey hurries over, cap askew and a harried look on her face. “You need to take it easy and let it heal. You can take a pain potion if you need it, but not for another hour.”

“Thank you, Madam Pomfrey,” Hermione says.

Behind Ron, she sees several other beds are occupied. Three beds over, Aurora holds the hand of the unmoving form of her friend.

Twisting towards Ron—and wincing at the pain—Hermione says, “Where’s Harry? He isn’t hurt, is he?”

“No, no, no, he’s fine. He’s with Dumbledore.” Ron sighs. “Lupin was killed in the attack. Harry isn’t taking it well.”

Gasping, Hermione covers her mouth with her hand. Tears well in her eyes, and she doesn’t bother brushing them away. Sweet Lupin. He was the last link Harry had to his parents, other than Pettigrew. And poor Tonks! Ron’s hand covers hers.

“I’m sorry, Hermione. About the…” he glances to the next bed over, “you know.”

“It’s all right.” Hermione brushes away the tears. “We need to stick together. I love you, even when you’re being an arse.”

Ron chuckles. “Likewise. Will you be all right on your own for a bit? I should check if Lavender needs anything—she got some burns that are healing.”

“Of course, go.” She squeezes his hand. “I’ll be fine.”

Shooting her a grateful smile, Ron gets up. Once his back is turned, Hermione grimaces. Her side hurts more than she realised. Lifting the blanket slung over her, she studies the bandages wrapped around her midsection. She prods it gently, finding it warm to the touch. Madam Pomfrey comes over again and waves her wand over Hermione. A set of colourful runes appear, which the Mediwitch studies intensely.

“Did we lose anyone else?” Hermione asks, voice low.

Madame Pomfrey’s eyes are sad. “We don’t know yet the full extent of the attack. The Headmaster is meeting with the Minister to go over the aftermath of the attack; he’s called for an assembly later this afternoon. Death Eaters attacking Hogsmeade, it’s almost unthinkable.” She dissolves the runes. “The bandages are doing their job nicely, I can remove them in an hour or so. I assume I can’t convince you to stay overnight?”

Hermione shakes her head. “There are other people who need your help more than I do. I’ll take it easy, I promise.”

“See that you do, please. I don’t want to see you back here because you’ve overworked yourself.”

“Thank you, Madame Pomfrey,” Hermione says softly.

Madame Pomfrey smiles wanly and pats Hermione’s hand before hurrying away.

Hermione sinks back against the pillows and swallows against the lump in her throat. The attack comes back to her in flashes, and she shivers. She’s lucky to be alive. From the corner of her eye, she spots the bag of unshrunk books on the floor next to the chair Ron previously occupied. Rubbing her sternum, she realises the gnawing worry she feels might not fully be her own. Was Severus still in Tomes and Scrolls when the attack happened? Her ribs constrict. Hermione wishes she could see him, make sure he’s all right. That’ll have to wait until later, though.

-

Pulling out his chair, Severus scans the slowly filling Great Hall. Groups of sombre or crying students take their places at the tables. She’s not there. That she’s alive—as evident by him being so—is a small comfort. On his left, Minerva sits ramrod straight with her hands folded in her lap. He doesn’t comment on the redness of her eyes and neither does she. Severus sniffs. Then his body tenses. Potter and Weasley enter the Great Hall, Hermione between them. Her face is downturned and hidden by the mess she calls hair. There are no visible injuries, which isn’t as comforting as the fact that she’s walking of her own accord. Severus doesn’t believe for a second Poppy would be able to keep Hermione in the Hospital Wing if she was able to walk out on her own two feet. Her head lifts, and she’s looking right at him.

The air leaves his lungs.

It feels like several minutes before she gives him the slightest nod. She looks away, saying something to Potter before taking a seat at the Gryffindor table.

Severus barely stifles a hiss as his Dark Mark burns like fire.

Chapter Text

The atmosphere in the drawing room is borderline cheerful, which is disconcerting. They’re a good few hours into the elf wine, Severus wagers. The Dark Lord sits at the head of the table, one hand languidly stroking Nagini’s head as she curls around his chair.

“Ah, Severus,” he hisses. “You made it.”

“My Lord.” Severus bows his head. “I came as soon as I was able.”

Glittering shards embed on the bottom of his robes as a glass is thrown on the floor by his feet. “We were called hours ago,” Bellatrix says, moving in her seat to practically lean over the table.

Severus arches his brow and vanishes the glass. “My position at Hogwarts meant I had to stay until Dumbledore released me from my duty.”

She scoffs and reaches for another glass of elf wine.

“Sit, Severus,” the Dark Lord says. “Join the festivities. Today was a great success for our cause.”

“Indeed, My Lord.” Severus takes a seat at the Dark Lord’s right side.

Nagini lifts her head towards him, tongue flickering in the air. After a few seconds, she settles back by her master’s side.

“Tell me, Severus, what did the old fool say?” the Dark Lord is almost gleeful, which doesn’t suit him in the slightest.

“He is distraught by the attack.”

Laughter and cheer rise, and someone pounds their fist on the table. Severus takes a sip of his elf wine.

“I’ve a bone to pick with you, Snape,” Yaxley says with a sneer from his place further down the table. “That hex you cast nearly broke my arm.”

Severus arches a brow. “I had to maintain my cover. I could hardly start cursing the students, could I? I would lose my position at Hogwarts faster than you can blink.”

Bellatrix scoffs. “There’s always an excuse. You should have stayed out of our way.”

“What do you think Dumbledore would think about one of his teachers standing by while students were attacked? Do you imagine his faith in me would deepen?”

The Dark Lord raises his hand. “Enough. I do not doubt Severus, Bella, nor should you.”

Severus lowers his head. This doesn’t mean he’s safe, only that the Dark Lord is not in the mood for entertainment.

It’s several hours later when he climbs the spiral staircase to Dumbledore’s office, body aching. Pausing outside the door, Severus closes his eyes and inhales deeply. His good fortune finally ran out, and before leaving the Manor, the Dark Lord allowed Yaxley retribution for the damage caused earlier in the day. He was always unimaginative, though, and the round of Crucio he inflicted on Severus was weak. His Occlumency shields quiver with the weight of staying intact. A few calming breaths ensure they will remain, and then Severus knocks on the wooden door.

Dumbledore’s got his fingers steepled underneath his chin, and his gaze is far away. Severus sinks into an armchair and scrubs a shaking hand over his face.

“The Dark Lord is pleased with the outcome of today.”

Dumbledore’s eyes focus on Severus, and he gives a weary sigh. “I daresay he was. Did he give a reason for the attack?”

“He doesn’t need one; it’s fearmongering. How many dead?”

“Eighteen.” Dumbledore removes his glasses. “I just got word from St Mungo’s that Claire Dennehy passed away from her injuries. That makes six students dead.”

Claire Dennehy. She was in Ravenclaw, fourth year. Talented at potions, quiet.

“We lost Hestia Jones from the Order,” Dumbledore continues. “As well as Remus. Harry is, as you can imagine, inconsolable.”

Severus’ hand freezes halfway through his hair. The list of bodies from his school days grows longer. “Has Nymphadora been told?”

“Yes, Minerva and Kingsley went to their house earlier.” Dumbledore rubs his eyes and puts his glasses back on. “Her parents are with her now.”

Severus sighs. How many more lives will be lost before this war is over?

-

Despite the fire burning merrily in the hearth, the room of requirement feels cold. Hermione rests her chin on her bent knees and stares into the flames. Beside her, Harry sniffles.

“I wonder if anyone’s told Tonks,” he whispers, voice broken.

Hermione blinks, eyes red and raw from spending the last hours crying. “I’m sure they have.”

“I think,” Harry starts, looking away from the flames, “I want to be alone for a bit. If that’s all right?”

“Of course.” Hermione sits up properly. “Do you want us to leave?”

He looks embarrassed, then nods.

“We’ll leave you be, mate,” Ron says and stands.

“Thank you,” Harry says.

Hermione stops herself from hugging him, knowing he’s barely holding himself together. Instead, she clasps his shoulder briefly. “Let us know if you need anything,” she says softly.

Harry smiles wanly. “I will.”

When the door closes behind them, Hermione turns to Ron. “Are you going back to the common room?”

“Yeah, I want to spend some time with Lavender. Are you not coming with?”

She shakes her head. “I’m going downstairs,” she says, hoping he catches her meaning without her having to spell it out.

Ron only nods. “I’ll see you later?”

“Yes.”

She hugs him tightly before they go their separate ways. There’s a chill over the castle that makes Hermione shiver, and she’s not sure it’s because of the temperature. She hasn’t had the chance to see Severus since the assembly in the Great Hall—where he left as soon as Dumbledore finished speaking—and she fears at least some of the past few hours were spent with You-Know-Who. That she’s felt nothing through the soul bond is not a comfort.

When the bricks move aside to reveal the lab, it also reveals the black-clad form of Severus. She maps the parts of him she can see, looking for signs of injury or distress. Seeing none, Hermione exhales shakily as her stomach begins to unknot itself. Looking up, he pauses in his chopping.

“Hi,” Hermione says, hands worrying the sleeves of her jumper. “May I come in?”

“Of course.”

The archway closes itself behind her. She stops on the other side of his workbench, hating how uncomfortable and awkward she feels.

Severus clears his throat. “Are you all right? I felt the spell...”

Hermione nods. “Madame Pomfrey said I will be sore for a few hours more, but I’ll be fine.” She looks him over. “Are you all right?”

“I remain unscathed.”

“Did-” She stops herself and wets her dry lips. “Did you know? About the attack.”

He frowns, then shakes his head. “I wasn’t aware of it. No doubt this was on purpose; the Dark Lord knows I couldn’t claim to be ignorant of an attack on students.”

Hermione sniffles. “What was the purpose of it? They didn’t go after Harry, so what was the point?”

“To show they can—that no one is safe.”

A shiver goes through her, and she wraps her arms around her torso. The mindless violence is almost unfathomable.

Severus sighs. “Though the timing is not the best, I suppose there are some things we should talk about.”

Hermione digs her fingers into the fabric of her jumper. “I suppose there are.”

“I shouldn’t have kissed you. No, let me finish,” he says when she opens her mouth to speak. “It was a mistake, a moment of weakness on my part.”

Merlin, she might cry again. “A moment of…” She collects her emotions. “I haven’t imagined that things have changed between us?”

His face changes, looking torn. “No, you haven’t,” he finally says, sounding like the words are a heavy weight on his shoulders.

She frowns. “Then why-”

“Because it can’t happen.” He rests his hands on the worktop. “You are a student.”

“I’m not your student.” The excuse is weak, and she knows it.

“It doesn’t matter that you’re not my student anymore. You’re still a student, which means I have a responsibility to you and this school.” Severus scrubs a hand over his face. “Nothing can happen while you’re under my care.”

Her fingers grip her jumper tighter. “And when I’m not?”

He looks at her then, and there’s a softness in his black eyes. “You don’t know how you’ll feel that far ahead.”

“I do know! Do you think my feelings are that flighty?”

“I think you’re young and a lot can happen in four months. We also don’t know if the soul bond has affected us.”

Hermione steps around the workbench, heart racing. “Do you think I hadn’t considered that? I’ve been doing research on the soul bond for months, since the Christmas break, trying to find information that the soul bond was somehow affecting my feelings for you. I didn’t find any evidence of that being a possibility.” She pauses to inhale shakily. “I know how I feel,” she ends softly.

Severus sighs, shoulders relaxing slightly. “You should get some rest,” he says, tilting his head as he regards her.

“As should you,” she counters, digging her fingers deeper into her jumper to stop herself from reaching for him.

“I need to restock the Hospital Wing. Poppy’s running low on pain potions and anti-inflammatory draughts.”

“Can I help?”

He hesitates, then nods. “I’m doing a variation of the pain potion, the recipe is somewhere on my desk.”

Hermione pushes up her sleeves. “I know, I’ve brewed it before. A double batch?”

“Yes. Hermione?”

She pauses reaching for the valerian root. For once, his face is completely open to her. The intensity sends shivers up her neck.

“I shouldn’t have implied the soul bond was influencing our feelings,” he says earnestly. “It was a disservice to both of us, and I hope you can forgive me for it.”

“Of course,” she says without hesitation.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

Hermione tries to smile. “There’s no need to thank me.”

-

The attack on Hogsmeade changes things, for all of them. A memorial is placed in the entrance hall for the six students who lost their lives in the attack. It makes Hermione’s stomach hurt every time she walks past their smiling faces. The banners in the Great Hall are switched to black ones, and there’s a subdued atmosphere at every meal.

Harry changes too—becomes more sombre and withdrawn. He’s absent for most of his classes the following week, and Hermione scarcely sees him at all. She voices her concerns to Ron and Ginny one evening when they’re in the common room.

“He just needs some time,” Ginny says. “I know I would if I lost someone close to me.”

“You’re probably right.” Hermione sighs and runs her hand over Crookshanks’ back. He’s taken residence on her lap, and his purrs vibrate in her legs. “I just worry.”

“I do too.” Ron opens the wrapper of a chocoball. “It isn’t good for him to spend too much time on his own; he gets very broody.”

Ginny snorts. Hermione can’t disagree with that.

As she’s walking back to the common room after her Arithmancy class on Wednesday, Hermione looks out the window and sees a familiar figure going down to the lake. After dropping off her bag in her room, she follows him. Though the sun is high in the sky, there’s a chill in the wind, and she’s grateful for her jacket and scarf.

Harry doesn’t acknowledge her when she takes a seat beside him on the ground. It’s not comfortable, and she casts a spell to keep the moisture from creeping into her clothes. She pushes her hair behind her ear and looks out over the Black Lake. The surface is still and glossy as a mirror.

“Is there anything I can do?” she says at length, eyes following a starling as it flies overhead towards the Forbidden Forest.

Harry sniffs. “I don’t know. I keep forgetting he’s gone, and then something reminds me. And with the funeral tomorrow…” he trails off.

“I know,” she says, because saying she’s sorry seems like a daft thing to do.

“How,” he pauses, runs a hand through his hair. “How do I go on when people I care about keep dying? My parents, Sirius, and now Remus.”

Hermione looks at him. “I wish I had answers for you. I’m not used to not having answers.”

He turns towards her then, and his green eyes are brighter than usual. “I don’t think there is an answer to this. I think we just wake up each morning and put one foot in front of the other.”

She smiles wanly. “I think we do. But we can lean on each other when we need to. I’m good leaning height.”

This makes him snort. “Yeah, because you’re short.”

“Hey! I’m not short. You’re just freakishly tall.”

Harry’s smile fades slightly, and Hermione nudges him with her arm.

“It’s cold out here. Why don’t we go inside?”

He doesn’t reply, but gets to his feet. Hermione stands. The wind sends a chill through her. Harry slings an arm around her shoulder, and they walk together back towards the castle.

Chapter Text

Hermione’s never been to a wizarding funeral before, so she’s not sure what to expect. Dumbledore arranged several Portkeys from the Ministry to take the attendees from Hogwarts to a plot of land outside Cardiff. Hermione learnt from Professor McGonagall earlier that morning that Lupin’s mother was from there. Landing on a windy hilltop, Hermione clasps Harry’s hand hard in hers, while Ginny takes the other. It’s a chilly afternoon, and the wind finds its way underneath Hermione’s heavy black robes. Glancing over her shoulder, she briefly meets Severus’ black eyes. He holds her gaze for a few seconds before looking away. All the teachers and Hogwarts staff are in attendance, looking sombre in their dress robes.

The funeral itself takes place in a grassy area behind a white stone cottage, where a couple of dozen chairs are set up with an aisle between them. The chairs are facing a square stone box sitting on top of a pillar. Runes are inscribed on the box, but she can’t make out what they mean. The sentiment is clear enough. As Hermione takes a seat she sees Tonks being led to the first row; mousey brown hair pulled away from her face and her hand cradling her stomach. The unfamiliar man and woman flanking her must be her parents. Next to her, Harry squeezes her hand tighter. Hermione closes her eyes and listens to Dumbledore start the service. He speaks of Lupin’s kindness and bravery, and Hermione can’t stop herself from crying.

At the end of the service, Dumbledore faces the stone box. He places a hand on top of it and gives a low incantation that makes the runes glow bright white. The light lifts from the runes and dissolves into the air. This clearly marks the end of the funeral, because people rise from their seats. Hermione does the same, unsure what’s expected of her now.

“Would you mind waiting a moment?” Harry asks, eyes shifting over to where Tonks stands with her parents.

Hermione nods. “As long as you need.”

His smile turns into a grimace.

Mr and Mrs Weasley come over to them before leaving, and Molly’s hug makes Hermione miss her mum.

“Poor Tonks,” Ginny says, adjusting the black bow in her hair.

Hermione hums in agreement and looks over to where Tonks and Harry are talking. They’re too far away for her to hear what they’re saying, but she watches Harry’s face crumple as Tonks clasps his hands. She looks away.

Once they are back at Hogwarts, Ron goes off to find Lavender and Harry squeezes Hermione’s hand.

“I’ll see you later, yeah?”

Her smile doesn’t feel convincing. “Later, yes.”

Even knowing she shouldn’t be doing it, Hermione makes her way to the hidden door off the entrance hall and downstairs to the dungeons. A mermaid in the underwater painting in the corridor waves at her.

Snape looks unsurprised to see her.

She’s suddenly unsure of how to act around him. Since their talk the previous Saturday night, she hasn’t seen much of him. “Is it all right, me being here?”

“Of course.” Severus puts the stirring rod down. “I’ll be done in a few minutes.”

Hermione sits and watches as he completes what looks like a Blood Replenishing potion. She’s starting to regret not changing out of her black dress robes, and the tight French plait she put in this morning is starting to hurt her scalp. Severus transfers the potion into several vials and then gives the cauldron a good clean. Once the worktop has been cleared, he motions for her to follow him.

His quarters look unchanged from the previous time she was there, and she hangs her heavy cloak over the back of the sofa before taking a seat.

Severus leans against his desk and folds his arms across his chest. “How are you doing?”

She gives a dry chuckle. “I honestly couldn’t say.” Hermione rubs her eyes, then belatedly remembers she’s wearing mascara. “It still doesn’t feel real that he’s dead. I can’t even fathom how Tonks is doing.”

“Yes. It’s a great loss for her and the Order.” Severus clears his throat. “I won’t pretend there were any warm feelings between us, but his death brings me no joy.”

“Do you know who killed him?”

Severus hesitates. “Dolohov.”

Dolohov. A shiver runs through Hermione, and she can’t stop herself from pressing a hand over the scar hidden by her robes. She had nightmares about him for months after the fight at the Department of Mysteries. Nightmares in which her chest was split open, insides exposed and he reached inside her to pull out her still beating heart.

A glass clinking against wood breaks her from her thoughts. Severus has placed a glass with amber liquid in front of her. He’s holding a similar glass, but she notices his is filled more than hers. Her brows raise.

“You’re an adult in both our world and the Muggle world,” he says with a shrug and sinks into the armchair.

Hermione takes a small sip and fails to hide her grimace. The warmth helps against the coldness in her chest.

“I’d never been to a funeral before,” she says. “I have a terrible feeling it will only be the first before this war is over.”

“I wasn’t much older than you are when I went to my first one either.”

Hermione follows the line of his neck as he knocks back half the contents in his glass. Her cheeks flush, and she looks at her hands.

“Whose funeral did you attend?”

“My mother’s.”

Her gaze meets his.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

Severus waves her condolences away. “It was a long time ago.”

Hermione takes another small sip of her Firewhisky. He’s never shared much about his childhood or his parents, and by the glimpses Harry saw during their Occlumency lessons—and swore Hermione to secrecy never to tell anyone about—Severus had a very different childhood from her.

She clears her throat. “The whisper collard should start blooming soon.”

“Yes, I plan on harvesting it next Wednesday.”

“You’re going alone?”

Severus gives her a pointed look, but his tone is teasing. “Remember what happened the last time we both were near the whisper collard?”

Hermione chuckles, and her face grows warm. She downs the rest of her drink. “Even with all that’s happened, I don’t regret it.”

His eyes soften. “Nor do I.”

-

At the start of the following week, it seems the teachers simultaneously realise the N.E.W.T.s are mere months away and therefore doubling the amount of homework and impromptu tests. She spends almost every minute not in class at the library, and she’s stopped trying to wash the ink stains from her fingers.

On her way to class on Wednesday morning, Hermione hikes her book bag higher on her shoulder. “Could we move our Defence run-through to tomorrow instead? Professor Babbling just gave us homework deciphering thirty different rune combinations that’s due tomorrow.”

“All right,” Ron says. “We’ve got Quidditch practice tonight anyway. I think Harry’s trying to run us to death,” he adds in a lower voice.

Harry rolls his eyes. “I’m trying to win us the Quidditch Cup, mate.”

“Miss Granger!”

Hermione looks over her shoulder at Professor McGonagall hurrying over. Her mouth is tense and it makes Hermione worried.

“Miss Granger, I need to ask you to come with me,” McGonagall says as she stops in front of the trio. “Mr Potter, please let Professor Delacour know Miss Granger won’t be in class.”

“Yeah, of course,” Harry says, brow furrowed. “What’s going on, Professor?”

“Get to class, please.”

Harry and Ron reluctantly leave, and Hermione feels worse when they’ve gone. She wipes her clammy hands on her skirt.

“Professor, what’s wrong? Is it Seve—Professor Snape?”

Professor McGonagall shakes her head. “There’s been an incident in Eynsham, with your parents.”

Her chest constricts as the air leaves her lungs. Darkness blurs her vision, and her skin feels like it’s about to dissolve into the air.

“They’re all right, Hermione,” McGonagall’s voice cuts through the ringing in her ears. “They’ve not been harmed.”

Blinking rapidly, Hermione tries to control her breathing. “They’re all right?”

“Yes, they’re all right. But we must leave at once.”

They make a brief stop at the Gryffindor common room for Hermione to leave her bag and get her cloak before heading to the Apparition spot. Professor McGonagall offers Hermione her arm.

“You are in no condition to Apparate, Hermione.”

Nodding, Hermione takes her arm. She barely has time to take a deep breath before they Disapparate.

-

As soon as her feet touch the grass in her parents’ garden, Hermione rushes towards the house. She finds them in the living room, sitting close together on one of the sofas with two mugs on the coffee table. Her mother’s been crying. They both look up when she enters.

“Hermione!” Her mother rises and within seconds is embracing Hermione tightly.

“I came as soon as I could,” Hermione says against her mother’s shoulder. Despite McGonagall’s reassurance, she didn’t quite believe they were all right until she saw her parents together and unharmed. “What happened?” she asks, pulling back to look at them.

“Death Eaters,” says a familiar voice as Bill Weasley walks into the living room, pocketing his wand. “Two of them, I think. Hello Hermione. Sorry to have to catch up during circumstances like this.”

Hermione wipes away the few tears that escaped during the embrace with her mother. “What happened?” she asks again.

“We had just opened the office for the day when Bill applyrated in telling us we had to leave,” her dad says and it takes her hazy mind a second to realise he means Apparated. “Then there was an explosion, and Bill shoved a plush frog in our hands.”

“Emergency Portkey, keyed to your parent’s house,” Bill explains.

“Thank you for reacting so quickly,” Hermione says.

“Will someone tell me what’s going on?” Her mother’s voice is shrill in her panic. “Are we in danger?”

“You are, Mrs Granger,” Professor McGonagall says. “It appears You-Know-Who has decided you are now a target.”

Hermione’s dad’s face has gone deathly pale. “Because we’re Muggles?”

“Yes.” Hermione’s mouth has gone so dry she’s surprised she can get the words out. “He thinks everyone who hasn’t got any magical blood should die. Including me.”

Her mum chokes out a sob, and her dad rises from the sofa to embrace her. He looks more tired and weary than Hermione has ever seen him, and it makes her heart hurt.

“What do we do now?” he asks, looking from Hermione to Bill.

Bill and Professor McGonagall share a look that clearly says this is a previous discussion Hermione hasn’t been privy to.

“We need to move you to an Order safe house, and quickly,” Bill says. “We’ve put as many protection spells on your house as we can, but it’s only a matter of time before they will find you.”

“No.” Her mum moves back, and though her face still bears traces of tears, her voice is resolved. “We’re not leaving.”

“Jackie…” Hermione’s dad pleads, reaching for his wife.

“This is our home, Martin! We’ve lived here for twenty-five years, and I will not give it up to some...some...thugs.” She storms out of the living room and upstairs, before there’s a slamming of a door.

Her dad sighs and runs a hand through his thinning hair. “I’ll go talk to her.” Smiling weakly, he clasps Hermione’s shoulder before pulling her into a hug. “We’ll be all right, love.”

Hermione fists her hands into his shirt and blinks against the hot tears in her eyes. “I’m so sorry for putting you through this,” she mumbles.

“Nothing about this is your fault,” he says, holding her at arm’s length. “The only ones to blame are these people and this lunatic they’re answering to.” He strokes his thumb over her cheek. “We wouldn’t trade having you for a daughter for anything in the world.”

“I love you, too, dad.”

Squeezing her shoulders, he goes upstairs.

Hermione clears her throat and wraps her arms around her torso. “Where are you taking them?”

“We can’t tell you,” Professor McGonagall says. “The fewer people who know, the better.”

Her shoulders slump, but she nods. “I understand.” She looks at Bill. “Are you going with them?”

He nods. “I’ll protect them, Hermione.”

A few minutes later there are footsteps on the stairs. Her parents are both a bit glassy-eyed and carrying a suitcase. Her mum walks over to the mantle and takes two photographs from it: a wedding photo and a picture from Hermione’s first birthday. She puts them into the suitcase and squares her shoulders.

“We’re ready.”

Hermione feels like crying all over again.

-

When his clock chimes eight, Severus dons his travel cloak and heads to his lab to get vials for the whisper collard. He’s beyond exhausted. In the almost two weeks since the Hogsmeade attack, he’s been averaging three hours of sleep, and he suspects the Invigoration draughts are giving him a stomach ulcer. This could probably be fixed with more food and less coffee, but he has no appetite for the first and needs the second to get through his classes and the bloody marking.

A presence makes him pause in the doorway.

Hermione gives a ghost of a smile. “You look tired.”

Severus closes the door behind him. “I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight.”

“Am I not wanted?”

His brows raise. It’s unlike her to ask such a question—and her phrasing rolls over him like a wave.

Hermione sighs and looks away, rubbing a hand over her face. “I’m sorry, that was rude. I know what you mean, but I could use the distraction.”

“Minerva told me about your parents. Are they all right?”

She nods. “As much as they can be, but they weren’t hurt. Bill’s taken them to a safe house somewhere. He wouldn’t tell me where they are.”

“The Order safe houses are secret-kept for a reason,” he points out.

“I know. I just don’t like not being able to contact them.”

There’s a harshness to the line of her mouth and a crease between her brows he wants to smooth out. Severus puts several shrunken vials into his cloak pocket.

“Them being alive and unhurt is the most important thing.”

Hermione rubs a hand over her neck. “I’ve been at the library all afternoon trying to find some sort of protection spell to put over their house. It might be fruitless, but I can’t stand the idea of Death Eaters finding it and destroying it.” She closes her eyes and shivers.

They head out of the castle together. It’s a miserable night, cold and overcast, but at least it’s not raining. There’s a comfortable silence between them as they cross the lawns. It doesn’t take them long to find the part of the forest where the whisper collard grows, and Severus eyes the white flowers suspiciously.

“Any plan on how to stop the whisper collard from activating again?” Hermione says, carefully stepping over a fallen branch.

Severus raises his wand higher to give them more light. “Not step on it, for a start.”

Hermione snorts. “If you hadn’t scared me half to death, I wouldn’t have stepped on it. You can be rather frightening when you want to be.”

He glances at her with a raised brow. “Apparently not frightening enough, seeing as you still tolerate my company.”

She tucks a loose curl behind her ear. “I know you too well now. You can’t frighten me away.”

Her words and the implication settle over his tired bones, bathing them in a warmth he can’t remember ever feeling. Severus clears his throat.

“You always were remarkably stubborn,” he quips and offers Hermione the vials. “If you please. Be ready when I cut the flower.”

He fishes out a small silver knife and, being extremely careful not to trample any part of the plant, cuts a few of the flower heads. Hermione is ready with the vials, and he drops two heads into each of the vials and puts the stopper on.

“That part worked at least,” Hermione says as she steps back.

“Now we just need to add it to the potion,” he fills in, pocketing the vials.

When they get back to his lab, Hermione transfers the cool soul bond potion to a pewter cauldron. Severus won’t admit to himself how much he’s missed her company in the lab since the attack in Hogsmeade. He’s scarcely seen her more than for the few minutes each day when she’s tended to the soul bond potion. Never before has he been so aware of the curve of her neck when she pulls her hair back for brewing or her hands when she prepares ingredients. Several times he has seen himself closing the distance between them, cupping her face and kissing her. Every time he stops himself.

Severus places the vials on the worktop next to the cauldron. “Do you want to add the flower heads?”

“Of course. It’s kind of symbolic, in a way?” she says with a chuckle, putting her knife on the cutting board.

There’s tension in the room when she adds the sliced ecanel root to the potion, and they wait for it to turn a periwinkle blue. If the shade is too on the lilac side it means the potion is ruined. Hermione visibly relaxes when the potion slowly lightens into the perfect shade of periwinkle blue. Exhaling shakily, she rests her hands on the worktop.

“That was terrifying.” She turns her head towards him. “I was half-expecting it to turn out lilac.”

“I’m glad you were wrong. Are you good with finishing up?”

Straightening up, Hermione nods. “Yes.”

Severus watches as she carefully puts two of the flower heads into the cauldron. He knows from the instructions they made that the potion now needs to be stirred for eight minutes, alternating clockwise and anti-clockwise, and then steep for 29 days.

After eight minutes, Hermione puts the stirring rod down. “Now we wait.”

He nods. “Now we wait.”

Chapter Text

Two days later, there’s an Order meeting.

It’s the first one since the one during the Christmas hols, when Hermione, Harry and Ron were all inaugurated into the Order. The atmosphere in the dining room is tense, with plenty of worried faces. Hermione can just about see Severus from the corner of her eye, standing by the door with his arms crossed.

“I wonder what’s going on,” Ron says, moving his chair a bit closer to hers to make room for Kingsley.

“Nothing bad, I hope,” Hermione says and looks over at Harry, who is standing at the head of the table with Dumbledore. He’s seemed distant since she told him and Ron about her parents, which worries her. There are already so many things he keeps from them.

“I don’t think it’s anything good,” Ron mumbles just as Dumbledore calls the meeting to order.

“Thank you all for being here,” Dumbledore says, resting his hands on the table. “As many of you know, an attempt was made to kill Miss Granger’s parents a few days ago. Only the quick thinking of Bill Weasley spared their lives, and they have been transferred to a safe house. This is only the latest in a series of attacks on both Order members and their families. I want to caution everyone to stay vigilant.”

Hermione digs her nails into her palms.

“I am not the only one wishing to address the room,” Dumbledore continues. “Harry, go ahead.”

Hermione frowns. He didn’t tell them he was speaking at the meeting.

“Thank you.” Harry clears his throat. “I’m actually the one who wanted to have this meeting today. What happened with Hermione’s parents was the last straw. I’m sick and tired of sitting around and letting Voldemort attack and kill us or people we’re close to. We’re just waiting to be picked off, one by one. I say we take the fight to them and end this, once and for all.” He pauses, looking unsure.

There’s a stunned silence.

It’s Moody who speaks first. “How do you propose we do that? You-Know-Who isn’t exactly easy to pin down.”

“I believe I can help with that.”

Hermione’s pulse races. Turning in her seat, she looks at Severus. As does everyone else in the room. He looks impassive, and she can’t feel anything through the soul bond.

Moody huffs. “Help lead us into a trap, you mean.”

“Please continue, Severus,” Dumbledore says, giving Moody a stern look.

“On April 10th, most if not all of his army will gather for the lunar eclipse. The Dark Lord will need to perform a ritual to strengthen the bond of the Dark Mark. If you’re planning an attack, that’s the day to do it. Preferably before the ritual takes place.”

“That's only three weeks away,” Kingsley says. “Will we have enough time to prepare?”

“We’ll have to,” Severus continues. “We don’t know when an opportunity like this will be presented to us again.”

“That’s convenient,” Moody says. “How can we be sure you’re not setting us up for an ambush?”

“Alastor, that is enough,” Dumbledore says. “I do not doubt Severus’ loyalty and neither should you. I do not have to remind you all of the seriousness of the situation at hand. If we are to defeat Tom, we need to work together and use all our resources.”

“Severus, do you know where the gathering will be?” Minerva asks.

“Malfoy Manor. It’s been his headquarters since the imprisonment of Lucius and Draco. The Dark Lord is arrogant enough to think we won’t attack him first.”

Dumbledore removes his glasses and polishes them with the edge of his robe. “Severus, if you could share what information you know about the ritual with Minerva? We need to know exactly what we’re dealing with and begin planning our attack as soon as possible. As for the rest of you: stay vigilant and be cautious.”

Hermione meets Severus’ gaze for a moment before he steps out of the room with Professor McGonagall.

Harry approaches her and Ron. “Come on,” he says and leaves the room.

They follow him upstairs to the bedroom he and Ron shared a few summers ago. Hermione sinks onto the bed.

“Why didn’t you tell us you were planning this?” she asks, trying to keep the hurt from her voice.

Harry leans against the dresser with a sigh. “I’m not sure. I’ve felt like this since Remus…” he clears his throat. “Since the attack in Hogsmeade. I’m tired of Voldemort always being one step ahead and people I care about dying. But I needed to talk with Dumbledore about it first. And then there’s the prophecy.”

“That you have to be the one to kill him?” Ron asks.

Harry nods. “I needed to, I don’t know, come to terms with what that means, you know? Killing someone, even someone like Voldemort.”

“You know we’ll be right there with you, mate,” Ron says.

“We will,” Hermione adds.

She looks at her boys—though they’re men now—with a gnawing worry that Harry killing You-Know-Who won’t be as straightforward as they hope.

-

Severus spent enough time at Malfoy Manor during his youth that he is familiar with its layout and secret passages, but he’d rather not take any chances on things changing in the years since. He finds two possible passageways they can use, which will allow them to get inside unseen. Then there’s the matter of the wards.

The creak of floors makes him pocket his wand.

Narcissa is dressed in elaborate travel robes with not a hair out of place. “Severus? What are you doing here?”

He folds his hands in front of him. “To see you. I assume you are on your way to Azkaban?”

Her chin raises slightly. “I am. It’s not quite how I imagined celebrating my son’s 18th birthday, but I suppose I should be grateful they’re letting me see him at all. I’ve been told my husband won’t be able to join us.”

“Please give Draco my well wishes.”

Narcissa scoffs. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to get them.”

Severus sighs. “Narcissa, you know I did my best for Draco.”

She squares her shoulders and takes a deep breath. “It didn’t help him much, did it?”

She sweeps out of the room, leaving him alone in the drawing room. Placing a ward on the door to warn him of anyone approaching, Severus sets out to identify the wards placed on the manor. He needs to find a way to alter the wards enough to allow the Order entry, but without it being noticeable. It won’t be easy: the wards are both layered and complex, but they bear Lucius’ signature. This might work in his favour.

His ward alerts him that someone is coming. Severus quickly copies down the runes for the wards and pockets his wand just as the door to the drawing room opens. Fuck.

“What are you doing here?”

“That is none of your concern,” Severus says.

Bellatrix tilts her head and looks at him in a way that has him wondering if she’s imagining how to best torture him. He wouldn’t put it past her.

“It is my concern,” she says, moving closer. “You may have fooled the Dark Lord, but you don’t fool me.”

“You really think I’ve managed to fool one of the greatest wizards that ever lived? Why Bella, I didn’t realise you thought so highly of me.”

Her eyes flash. “I don’t think about you at all, Snape. Some of us are actually out there doing the work.”

He arches a brow. “Ah, yes. The attack on the Granger girl’s parents. A job well done.”

“We would have been successful if that blood-traitor,” she spits the word, “hadn’t shown up.”

Severus tightens the grip on his wand. As soon as he heard of the attack, he suspected Bellatrix was involved.

“Better luck next time. Now, if you don’t mind,” he continues, “I need to get back to Hogwarts.”

Bellatrix scoffs but doesn’t respond.

Sweeping past her, Severus heads outside to Apparate.

-

Hermione shifts to try to find a more comfortable position on the sofa. She hadn’t planned on spending her Saturday evening doing homework in Severus’ quarters, but when both Harry and Ron left her after dinner to spend time with their girlfriends she found herself heading down to the dungeons. Not that she’s getting much work done; she can’t stop thinking about the Order meeting yesterday. It’s hard to wrap her head around that in less than a month, it will all be over. One way or the other.

She looks over to the desk where Severus is bent over a stack of parchment, furiously writing something down. He’s rolled his shirtsleeves up, and she catches a glimpse of the black outline on his forearm. The only time she feels like she can breathe properly is when she’s with him, even if they’re not talking and doing their own reading. Is that what love feels like? She doesn’t know, but she does know that things have changed since the plans for the attack were made. Homework and boundaries seem rather arbitrary when they all might die in a few weeks. Closing her book—she hasn’t read a page in several minutes anyway—she stands and walks over to the desk.

“What are you working on?”

Severus stops writing and lifts his head. “Research I haven’t looked at in years. It might be useful for the attack.”

Leaning against the desk, she tilts her head. The parchment has a mixture of his cramped handwriting and arithmantic formulas that she can’t decipher. She barely stops herself from reaching for the paper to take a closer look.

“In what way?”

“The mark is created with dark magic,” he says, “which is always seeking out other forms of magic. I hope that I will be able to draw the magic from Death Eaters using my own mark as a conduit.”

Hermione glances at the exposed mark on his forearm. She’s not used to seeing it—he usually keeps it covered—and what it represents makes her shiver. Severus clears his throat and pulls down his sleeves.

“So it would deplete their magic?”

Nodding, he shifts his chair towards her. “I trust you know the symptoms of magical depletion?”

“Fatigue, nausea, a temporary weakening of your magic until it’s restored. The restoration process can be sped up by taking an invigoration draught.”

He looks amused. “Five points to Gryffindor.”

She rests her hands on the desk and tilts her head. “If it works it means the Death Eaters’ magic will be affected. They won’t be as powerful.”

“Exactly. It will also affect the Dark Lord. He is an exceptionally talented and dangerous wizard; Potter’s going to need all the help he can get in order to kill him.”

She hates that he’s right. Any other outcome than Harry killing You-Know-Who is unthinkable. She rubs her neck. If the conduit is successful it would change everything. Then she frowns.

“Since your mark is the conduit, will your magic also be affected?”

Severus stands and walks over to one of the bookcases behind the sofa. “It’s highly likely, yes, but there’s no way of knowing exactly how.”

Hermione sighs and rubs her neck. “I don’t like the danger it puts you in.”

“We have to risk it.” He puts the chosen book on the desk but remains standing.

“I know,” she says softly. “It doesn’t mean I can’t be worried for you.”

Something flickers in his black eyes before he exhales a chuckle and looks away.

“What?”

Severus meets her eyes again. “It’s a novice notion for me, having someone show concern.”

Oh.

Hermione’s hand reaches for his arm on autopilot, curling around his forearm. “That isn’t going to change.”

Shoulders dropping, he takes a step closer. Hermione’s pulse races at having him this close for the first time since their kiss. Severus gently cups her face and tilts her chin up. His eyes are soft. She’s expecting him to kiss her, but instead he leans his forehead against hers. Hermione closes her eyes and breathes him in. His thumbs slowly stroke over her cheekbones.

“I don’t think you realise how much it means to me,” he mumbles. “How much you mean to me.”

She tightens the grip on his sleeve. “I feel the same way.”

His breath fans over her face. Hermione has never wanted to be kissed this badly in her entire life. She exhales shakily, her eyes blinking open. His eyes are dark and so close, studying her. She’s well aware they’re both crossing a line they said they wouldn’t, but a part of her—the one that’s terrified about what will happen when they attack Malfoy Manor—can’t bring herself to care. Who knows how much longer they’ll have together?

“I should finish my homework,” she says, adjusting her hand on his arm.

“I should continue my research,” he says, thumbs still stroking her skin.

Hermione moves back first, ignoring the feeling in her chest telling her to do the opposite.

Chapter Text

When Severus steps out of the fireplace in the Grimmauld kitchen, it’s to a screaming match. Ginevra’s face is a similar shade as her hair, and Molly looks close to tears. When they notice him, Ginevra makes a sound of frustration and storms up the stairs. The slamming door at the top makes Molly sigh.

“Stubborn girl,” she says, turning away and wiping at her eyes. “She’s adamant about joining the attack, even though Arthur and I said she’s too young.” Facing him, she smiles softly. “You’ll understand when you have children, Severus. Nothing will give you as much love but also pain.”

Even if he wanted to reproduce, it seems unlikely there’s such a future for him. He clears his throat.

“There are other ways she could make herself useful, should she wish.”

“If I had my way I wouldn’t have her anywhere near the attack. She’s too young; they’re all too young. Harry, Ron, Hermione. They’re just children.”

His stomach feels like lead. “They’re adults in the eye of the law, Molly. They can make their own decisions about their lives.”

Molly sighs again. “You’re right. I just don’t want this for them. They should be focusing on their N.E.W.T.s and teenage things like dating, not fighting against dark wizards.”

Severus doesn’t know what to reply to that.

There are footsteps on the stairs, and Hermione appears. Her eyes flicker from Molly to him and back.

“Professor Dumbledore’s just arrived,” she says, tugging on her sleeve.

“Thank you, dear,” Molly says. “We’ll be right up.”

Hermione glances at Severus before disappearing upstairs.

The meeting takes place in the dining room, which is getting increasingly stifling as too many people are cramped into it. Severus takes his usual place by the open doorway and listens to Albus talking about the attack and the plan to use the conduit. There are a lot of looks in his direction, all of which he ignores.

“We’ll need a signal, then,” Minerva says, “to know when it’s time.”

“We could use the charmed galleons I created for Dumbledore’s Army,” Hermione says, meeting Severus’ gaze briefly. “It won’t be too difficult to make more. Then Professor Snape could use his to signal to us when it’s time to attack.”

“Assuming I am capable of such action,” he says.

There’s a tugging in his chest that doesn’t feel like his own.

“I think that’s a good idea, Miss Granger,” Albus says with a nod. “I’m entrusting you with this task. Now, Severus, have you got the plans for Malfoy Manor?”

Stepping up to the dining table, Severus pulls several pieces of rolled-up parchment from his robe pocket. “These are the floor plans for the manor,” he says and spreads them out across the table. “I’ve marked off the hidden entrances; here, here and here.” He points them out on the map. “I believe this one,” he points to the one off of the walled garden on the west side of the house, “would be easiest to get to, but it might be a good idea to have smaller groups at all of them.”

“Attack from multiple angles,” Potter says with a nod. “What about the wards?”

“I’m working on modifying them so your arrival won’t be alerted.”

“The time grows near for our attack,” Albus says. “I want everyone to study the floor plans Severus brought; it’s imperative you know the layout of the house before we act.”

As the plans are handed out among the Order, Severus slips out of the room and into the back garden for some air. The evening is cool but clear, and the air is filled with the sounds of the city: cars, sirens, music from a nearby pub. Severus prefers the silence and solitude of the highlands. The footsteps on the stone stairs and a scent on the air of a familiar perfume betray her identity before she speaks.

“Professor Dumbledore is asking for you.”

Severus looks at Hermione. “I’ll be right there.”

She stops at the lowest step and wraps her arms around herself. “Do you think we’ll be successful?”

“I do.” Putting his hands into his pockets, he faces her. “It won’t be easy, and we should prepare for the worst, but I do believe in our success.”

She nods softly. “Harry thinks so too, but I’m still scared. And with the soul bond…” she trails off, looking past him out over the garden. “You’ll be careful?”

Severus nods. “I will. And you too?”

“I will.”

Her eyes meet his again, and the way she’s looking at him makes him want to fall to his knees and hide away from the world.

Squaring his shoulders, Severus goes back inside.

-

Yawning, Hermione covers her mouth with her hand. She’s half-lying on the sofa with Crookshanks purring on her lap. A pile of fake galleons sits on the floor, freshly created with the Protean charm. She’s got about a dozen more to do before Friday, but the effort is draining her energy. They’re the only Gryffindor students to stay at Hogwarts over the Easter holidays, which means they can talk freely in the common room about the attack.

“I’m giving up on this bloody paper,” Ron exclaims, closing his book with a thud and dropping it onto the floor next to him. “Shockingly enough, the fact that we all might die in less than a week doesn’t make for a great motivator.”

Flinging himself on the sofa next to Ginny, Harry snorts. “That’s depressing, mate.”

“I have faith in you, I’m just saying! It’s a contributing factor.”

“At least you get to be a part of it,” Ginny says, tossing a crumpled ball of paper into the fire.

“Gin…” Harry reaches for her hand. “You can still help while staying here. I don’t think I could focus if I was worrying about you as well.”

Ginny’s face softens, and she nestles closer to him.

Hermione looks at the snoozing Crookshanks. The same thoughts have been running through her brain constantly for weeks now, getting more and more intense. The same dreams have her waking every night drenched in sweat and with the echoes of screaming in her ears. Some nights it’s her parents, other nights Harry or Ron. It’s often Severus, standing before her with his Dark Mark split open, oozing black liquid threatening to suffocate her.

Someone nudges her leg. Ron looks concerned.

“You all right?”

Hermione chuckles. “You mean besides the looming threat of death and injury?”

He grimaces. “Yeah.”

“Just a lot on my mind about the attack.” She curls her hand in the soft fur on Crookshanks’ belly. He gives a loud snore and stretches his legs.

Ron nods. “With the soul bond too, I wager. The shared pain thing is potentially problematic. Oh, bugger,” he says, eyes darting to Ginny.

“It’s okay, she already knows.”

“Since when?”

Ginny looks away from Harry to snort. “I knew long before you did. You both really are the most unobservant people.”

“I can’t believe you told her first,” Ron complains. “We’re your best friends!”

“Because you were so supportive when you found out,” Ginny says. “You both acted like knobheads for months.”

He grimaces. “That’s true. Sorry, Hermione.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Hermione says. “Though you really were knobheads.”

“It was just a shock! It is Snape we’re talking about.” Ron shudders.

Hermione’s cheeks flush. “Could we talk about something other than the soul bond that might either cause me unspeakable pain or kill me, please?” Her hand snags on a tangle on Crooks’ belly, and he meows in protest. “Sorry, sorry.” She gently combs it out and scratches behind his ear.

“Sure,” Harry says. “Want to play exploding snap?”

-

Removing his travel cloak, Severus scrubs his hand over his face. He’s spent the past few hours at Grimmauld with Albus and Minerva finalising details for tomorrow’s attack. There are still many things that could go wrong, but it’s the best chance they have. There’s a headache beating in his temples which reminds him it’s closer to dinner than lunch. He finds a vial of headache potion and downs it before leaving his quarters.

He meets no one on his way to his office, and even the portraits seem quieter than usual. The bald goblin usually drinking tea next to his office appears to have been joined by a reedy blonde witch wearing a large hat. The door closing behind him is loud—the potion hasn’t quite managed to take care of his headache. Making himself a coffee, he sits at his desk and pulls out a thick pile of parchment.

Creating lesson plans and mock-up tests for after the Easter holidays is maybe not the best way to spend what could be his last day alive, but on the odd chance he makes it to the other side and there still are classes to be taught, he needs lesson plans.

“Enter,” he calls out at the knock on the door.

“By all means, don’t get up on my account.”

Looking at the newcomer, Severus lowers his quill. “I was expecting one of my colleagues. Do come in.”

Narcissa looks out of place in his dimly lit office with her silk robes and gleaming hair. She eyes the glass jars on the shelf as though they’re a stain on her freshly laundered tablecloth.

Closing his notebook, Severus walks around his desk. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

She raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Do I need a reason to visit an old friend?”

“You do not, but since we are seeing each other tomorrow for the festivities, I can only assume this isn’t a social call.”

Taking a seat, she clasps her hands in her lap. “I heard quite an interesting conversation yesterday.”

Severus leans back against his desk and motions for her to continue.

“The Dark Lord and dear Bella were discussing tomorrow’s ritual,” she says with the casual air of small talk.

“I would think you above eavesdropping, Narcissa.”

“I don’t eavesdrop. I just happened to be on the upper balcony as their conversation took place. You know how the sound carries there.” She flicks an invisible piece of lint from her robes. “The Dark Lord alluded he doubts one of his followers loyalty.”

He raises a brow. “You believe someone in our rank is powerful enough to fool the Dark Lord?”

“It matters little what I think; it’s what the Dark Lord believes. He would not make such an accusation lightly.”

Severus crosses his arms over his chest. “Let us hope he deals with the traitor swiftly and without mercy.”

She tilts her head. “You have the Dark Lord’s ear. Do you have any suspicions on who it might be?”

“I do not.”

Narcissa hums and stands. “Perhaps the Dark Lord is wrong. I must be getting home, there are still so many preparations I need to oversee. I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Six o’clock.”

He bows his head briefly. “I look forward to it.”

Severus follows her to the door, and once it’s closed he leans his forehead against it. It’s all over. He doesn’t believe in coincidences: he has been discovered.

“Fuck.”

They were so close to succeeding in ridding the world of the Dark Lord once and for all. He needs to tell Albus. They will have to change plans for tomorrow completely, but there is no time. Severus presses his forehead harder against the door. He doesn’t know what to do. His life is forfeit. Unless… The Dark Lord is arrogant and cruel enough to make an example of him, which means not killing him outright. He’ll want to go for the hurt. As long as Severus can get the conduit done in time and signal the Order, it doesn’t matter. It won’t be the first time he feels the pain of the Dark Lord’s wrath, but hopefully, it will be the last.

Chapter Text

Hermione taps her thumb against her book, then looks up at the clock. Almost nine. She looks down at her book again and sighs. She hasn’t read a page in almost half an hour. There’s a small explosion and the sound of Harry cursing. Like most nights this week, they’ve taken up camp in the common room, trying to pass the time. Guilt gnaws in her stomach that she would rather be several storeys below than here with her friends. She hasn’t seen Severus all day, even knocking on his office door to see if he was there, but there was no answer.

Ginny nudges her leg. “You should go to him,” she says, voice low.

Hermione frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Snape.” Ginny pushes her hair behind her ear and glances at the boys. “I saw you at the Order party, in the garden. You can tell me the full story after, but right now I think you should go see him.” She jerks her head towards Harry and Ron. “I’ll tell them something came up.”

Smiling, Hermione clasps Ginny’s hand. “Thank you.”

The castle is eerily silent, and she doesn’t meet anyone on her way to the dungeons. When she gets to the lab, Severus looks surprised to see her.

“What are you brewing?” she asks, moving closer as the bricks close behind her.

“Blood-Replenishing Potion. Poppy was running low on her stock.” He adds the powdered unicorn horn and lowers the temperature. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, I just…” she trails off, suddenly feeling foolish. “I just wanted to see you.”

His face softens. “I’m almost done here, if you’d like to wait?”

Hermione nods. “Of course.”

While he finishes the potion, she checks on the soul bond potion. It’s turned a very pale milky colour. By the time it’s ready, it should be completely translucent. If they get the chance to finish it. Hermione shivers. Turning away, she takes a seat next to where Severus is working. He cleans up the workspace while the potion simmers.

Once the potion is cooled and bottled, she follows him up the stairs to his quarters and declines his offer of tea. She curls up on the sofa and watches him start a fire.

“I can’t stand this waiting,” she says, tugging her sleeves down over her hands. “I both dread tomorrow and also can’t wait for it to be over.”

Sitting down next to her, Severus sighs. “I agree, but there isn’t much we can do now.”

“I know.” Hermione rubs the side of her neck. “I just… my mind keeps going to the worst possible outcomes and I can’t make it stop.”

“Do you want to talk about them? It might make you feel better.”

She blinks as images of him motionless and covered in blood swirl through her mind. “I’d rather not, if that’s all right.”

“Of course.” Severus touches her shoulder. “Is there anything I can do?”

Hermione looks at him, really looks at him, and heat flushes through her chest. Tucking her hair behind her ear, she sits up on her knees and leans towards him. She knows she’s crossing a line they swore they wouldn’t, but she can’t bring herself to care. The first kiss is soft, their lips barely touching. His hand clenches on her shoulder. Wetting her lips, Hermione kisses him again with more purpose. Her skin is hot and her pulse thuds in her ears.

Severus moves her back gently. “Hermione,” he murmurs, “what are you doing?”

Her face flushes with embarrassment. Maybe it was foolish of her to think he’d want her that way or that she could be confident and make the first move.

“I’m scared, and I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow,” she says, attempting to keep her voice steady. “But I want to be with you.”

His eyes darken. The fire crackles. Hermione hardly dares breathe, waiting for what his response will be. His face gives away nothing. Then the hand around her shoulder slides up to cup her neck, and he kisses her deeply.

Hermione will think of this night often over the next months, play it over and over in her mind, but there are things she’ll never remember.

She doesn’t remember whose clothes were removed first, nor what colour the sheets were on his bed. But she’ll never forget how Severus trembled when she first touched his bare skin, as though he wasn’t used to the feeling. She’ll never forget how gentle his touch was, nor his reassuring voice when she confessed she didn’t know what she was doing. She’ll never forget the feeling of him on top of her, inside her, around her. At one point their emotions combine through the soul bond and the intensity almost makes her cry.

When she wakes up, it takes her a few moments to realise where she is. Frowning, she looks at the unfamiliar ceiling. Then a foot bumps against her leg. Her cheeks flush, and she clears her throat.

“Good morning.”

Severus moves his arm underneath his pillow. “Good morning,” his voice is gravelly.

There’s something vulnerable about him, and Hermione realises she’s never seen him as unguarded before. His eyes are still hazy with sleep, and there’s a crease mark on his cheek. Hermione suddenly realises she’s very much naked. Turning towards him, she burrows deeper underneath the cover.

“What time is it?” she asks, then blows on a curl that’s insistent in obscuring her vision.

“It’s almost six.” Severus tucks the offending curl behind her ear, fingers lingering on her skin.

Hermione shivers. Shifting, she wraps her arm around his torso. His skin is warm against hers. Severus sighs and pulls her towards him. Hermione closes her eyes and breathes him in. She’s more scared now than before of the outcome of tonight. There is so much for her to lose.

They do have to get up eventually, and Hermione averts her eyes when Severus gets out of bed and reaches for his clothes.

She hears him chuckle. “It’s a bit too late for modesty, don’t you think?”

“I’m going to need some time to get used to that,” she says, risking looking in his direction.

His fingers pause doing up his shirt buttons, and it’s clear he’s thinking the same thing she is: that they might not have a chance to get used to it. Metaphorically putting on her big girl pants, Hermione gets out of bed. They finish getting dressed in silence, then face each other next to the rumpled bed.

This will be the last time they’re able to speak freely before the attack, but Hermione finds herself lost for words. Her heart hurts so much it’s hard to breathe.

Severus touches her cheek. “I know.”

The way he kisses her says more than words can.

-

Severus is getting a headache. He’s been at Malfoy Manor for almost two hours and there’s no sign of the Dark Lord yet. Severus palms the coin in his pocket, feeling its cool texture against his skin. The Order is stationed just beyond the wards, waiting for his signal.

He sips his Elf-made wine and attempts to look interested in whatever Rodolphus is yapping about. He was always a twat. The gleaming chandelier catches Severus’ eyes, and he wishes it would dislodge from its fitting and hit him over the head to get him out of this conversation. The room is stifling, which is not made any better by the fire a house-elf is tending to.

The click of high heels interrupts Rodolphus’ monologue. “Rodolphus, darling, Peridot was looking for you.”

A leer spreads over his face. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Peridot always had the worst taste in men,” Severus comments when Rodolphus has left.

Narcissa arches a brow. “She used to have her sights on you if I recall correctly.”

“My statement still stands. You’ve outdone yourself with tonight’s gathering.”

Narcissa laughs softly. “Thank you, Severus. You’re too kind.”

“Do you know when our guest of honour will arrive?”

“Soon, I believe.”

Severus takes another sip and discretely surveys the room. Pettigrew is off by himself in a corner of the room and Bellatrix stands by the fire, deep in conversation with Rabastan who seems more interested in his wine than his wife. Severus doesn’t blame him.

The doors slam open, bringing a chill into the room. The Dark Lord sweeps inside. Nagini slithers next to him, tongue flickering.

Conversations immediately die. Severus bows his head. It’s almost time. The Dark Lord comes to a halt before them. His cloak sweeps around him as he surveys his followers. Finally, he speaks.

“It pleases me to see so many of my loyal servants here. Since my return, you have proved yourself worthy to stand by my side, and tonight you will be rewarded. And yet,” he pauses, surveying the room, “all is not well.”

There’s a murmur through the room. Severus frowns, playing the part of ignorance. The coin in his pocket is slick against his sweaty palm. He meets Narcissa’s eyes. She looks unaffected, which means Severus has run out of time.

“It has come to my knowledge,” the Dark Lord continues, voice chillingly cold, “that one of you is deceiving me.”

Shocked gasps are heard, a few calls of ‘traitor’ and ‘who is it, my lord’. Severus puts his glass on a nearby side table. He hopes the Order won’t be too late. Rubbing his thumb against the coin, he sends the signal. The metal heats up for a second before cooling.

“Tell us who it is, my Lord,” Bellatrix says, eyes wild. “Tell us the traitor’s name.”

“Patience, dear Bella,” the Dark Lord says. “I will let the traitor reveal himself. Come out and face me.” He slowly looks around the room, hand casually stroking his wand.

Severus exhales slowly. There is no talking himself out of this situation. Fuck it.

He steps forward.

“You!”

People move away from him, still protesting and calling him names.

He keeps his eyes on the Dark Lord, hand ready to reach for his wand if needed. His body is tight with tension. He always knew this day would come.

“Traitor!” Bellatrix screeches, wand raised.

“No, Bella!” The Dark Lord growls. “His pain is mine,” he hisses. “You didn’t think I would find out. You thought you could fool me—me! Lord Voldemort knows all, sees all.”

“It’s been a long time since I was faithful to you,” Severus says. As he and the Dark Lord circle each other, Severus keeps an eye on the blasted snake. The last thing he needs is to get his throat ripped out before he can do the conduit.

“Tell us of his betrayal, my Lord,” Yaxley calls out.

“Several weeks ago, I sent a spy to Hogwarts. A donation of a portrait to the Slytherin common room, with a twin here in the manor.”

For the first time, fear flickers through Severus’ body. He remembers the reedy woman right next to where he thought he would never be overheard, and he recognises her now—painted with a set of delicate china in Malfoy’s sitting room. Subjects in portraits can move unhindered through practically all over the castle. What other secrets have been leaked?

“She found that I have been deceived,” the Dark Lord continues. “For years I’ve listened to your excuses about why you can’t bring the Potter boy to me, only to discover you’ve been working against me.”

Severus doesn’t avert his gaze, but there’s a glimmer of hope in his chest. The attack and the soul bond remain safe. She remains safe.

The Dark Lord spreads his arms out, as though expecting an embrace. “I will take your life for this. If you beg me for forgiveness, I might make it quick.”

Severus laughs dryly. “Go to hell.”

He yanks his left sleeve up and presses his hand against the Dark Mark. Fire burns through his veins. One by one, the Death Eaters grab their left arms as screams of anguish fill the room. Severus’ knees buckle, but he doesn’t feel the pain of them colliding with the stone floor.

-

Hermione needs the loo.

It doesn’t matter that she’s already been three times in the past two hours or that there definitely isn’t any time for her to find a bush in the Malfoy’s walled garden to squat behind. She fidgets and adjusts her sleeve.

“Can you stop?” Ron bites out from next to her. “You’re making me nervous.”

“Sorry.” She grimaces.

The galleon in her pocket burns.

Her wide eyes meet Ron’s. It’s time.

“Let’s go,” Kingsley says, voice annoyingly steady, and directs an unlocking charm on the door.

The narrow passageway has stone walls and rough flooring, and the dampness makes Hermione shiver. The light from their wands provides just enough glow to show the way forward, and where the floor turns into ascending stairs.

“There’s only one rule for tonight,” Harry says, lifting his wand higher. “No one is allowed to die. Got it?”

“Got it, mate,” Ron says.

Hermione wets her dry lips. “Yes. That goes for all of us.”

Kingsley chuckles. “I like the sound of that.”

Just as she reaches the top of the stairs, pain radiates through Hermione’s body. She cries out and steadies herself with a hand on the wall. Her knees threaten to give out. Severus must have done the conduit. A hand wraps around her elbow.

“We need to keep moving,” comes Ron’s voice close to her ear. “Can you walk?”

Nodding, she takes a shaky breath. Her body feels tight and hot, and sweat beads on her neck and temples. She can do this. She owes it to Harry not to fall apart now. Breathing through the pain, she continues. Ron’s arm across her back is a steady point that keeps her upright. The corridor leads to a rather large entrance hall. Through big doors on the right, several Death Eaters stumble out, clearly in pain. One of them looks up and yells out, before going down from Kingsley’s spell. With the element of surprise being broken, Hermione finds herself dodging spells as more Death Eaters rush from the room. Another group of the Order—led by Minerva—appears from a door off of the entrance hall and heads for the drawing room.

In the chaos, it’s hard for Hermione to do anything else but dodge spells and throw out ones of her own. She cuts one Death Eater down with a stunner, then drops to the floor as a jet of light shoots just over her head. The pain in her arm has faded to a dull throbbing.

“They’re fleeing!” someone calls out, and she whips her head around to see the front doors thrown open and Death Eaters making for the garden. The anti-apparition wards Dumbledore set up shortly after they arrived means they have nowhere to go.

Getting up, Hermione joins a handful of Order members in chasing after them. It’s starting to get dark, and the trees lining the drive cast dramatic shadows on the ground. She throws a curse at a faceless Death Eater., and his scream pierces the air. A spell hits her in the back, sending her sprawling to the ground. She barely manages to roll onto her back before a second spell shoots at her, narrowly missing her side.

“You filthy Mudblood,” Dolohov spits, sending another spell at Hermione.

This one doesn’t miss, and Hermione screams as pain shoots through her body. The spell lifts, and she’s left panting on the ground. Every part of her hurts, and the taste of blood makes her stomach turn.

“Once I’ve killed you,” Dolohov continues, approaching Hermione almost leisurely, “I’ll take great pleasure in making your parents beg for their lives before I kill them. Maybe I’ll even let you live long enough to watch them die. How does that sound, pet?”

“Go to hell,” Hermione spits.

The slicing hex catches him off guard. Eyes widening, he grasps at his throat. But it’s no use. Blood spills between his fingers, colouring his skin crimson. When he attempts to breathe, there’s only a gurgling sound. He stumbles towards her, the hand not covering his throat reaching for her. Hermione scrambles backwards, and her shoes slide on the damp grass. Dolohov collapses fully on the ground, coughing and wheezing. His skin is almost white from the blood loss. Hermione gets to her feet and watches as Dolohov stills. She exhales shakily. He’s dead. She killed him. She’s taken someone’s life. Her grip tightens around her wand.

“Avada Kedavra!”

Chapter Text

Severus’ fingers dig into the smooth wood flooring. The pain radiating from his arm rivals the Cruciatus. It puts white spots in his vision. He manages to get to his feet with his wand still clasped in his hand. The others are either on their knees or on the floor, writhing in pain. The conduit worked. A slithering movement catches his attention, and Severus spins around as Nagini lunges towards him. Her fangs barely miss him, but her tail smacks him across the ribs. He doubles over with a grunt but manages to send two rapid spells at her writhing body. Her severed head thuds against the floor.

“No!” The Dark Lord’s scream is almost inhumane.

Death Eaters start getting to their feet. Severus tightens the grip on his wand. Where is the bloody Order?

The hidden door next to the fireplace slams open. Several Order members rush into the room, and spells start flying. Ducking a curse, Severus stuns Rookwood. With the element of surprise lost, he finds himself duelling multiple people at once. His slicing hex catches Amycus Carrow by surprise, and his shield stops Yaxley’s curse at the last moment.

The crowded drawing room forces several Death Eaters through the doors to the entrance hall where, by the sound of it, two other groups of Order members are waiting for them.

“Tom Riddle!”

The voice makes the room stop. Panting, Severus adjusts the grip on his wand. Potter stands in the open doorway, eyes manic and his wand raised.

“Let’s finish this once and for all,” he says.

“He is mine,” the Dark Lord bellows. With a wave of his wand, the people standing between him and Potter are thrown out of the way.

Potter backs out of the room, and the Dark Lord follows.

Severus sees a wand movement from the corner of his eye, and he gets his shield up just as the spell hits it. Despite her rage, the spell is feeble and he swats it away like a fly.

“I knew you couldn’t be trusted, you filthy traitor,” Bellatrix shrieks.

“Oh, come now, Bella,” Severus says, blocking another spell, “you’ve been jealous of my position for years. Any suspicion came from wanting me gone so you could have the Dark Lord’s ear.”

He enjoys the way her face goes puce with rage.

“Liar!”

Her next spell hits the corner of his shield and ricochets off the gilded mirror above the fireplace. Glass rains over them, and Severus covers his head with his arms. When he looks back up, Bellatrix is halfway through the hidden passageway leading to the cellar. Shaking shards of glass from his hair, Severus follows in pursuit.

-

“Avada Kedavra!”

Hermione’s breath catches in her throat.

A Death Eater lies on his stomach a few metres away, dead. Ron stands above him with his wand still raised. There’s a still bleeding cut on his forehead, trailing vivid scarlet down his pale face. Hermione stumbles towards him, every movement painful.

“Are you all right?” Her cracked lip makes every word painful.

Ron looks at her with unseeing blue eyes. “Yeah,” he says, voice lofty. “Yeah, I think so. He was about to kill you.”

Hermione grabs his shoulder and attempts to smile. “You stopped him, Ron.”

He blinks again, and his eyes find focus on her. “Yeah.”

“You saved my life.”

Her ears start ringing. By the confused look on Ron’s face, his are too. Then it’s like a wall of air hits them, throwing them to the ground. Hermione huffs as the wind gets knocked from her lungs.

“What was that?” Ron coughs, getting to his feet.

“I don’t know.” Hermione gasps in pain as she stands. Her left shoulder feels like it’s about to fall off.

Kiran Pugs limps over to them. “It came from inside the house. There was a green light before whatever that was hit us.”

Green light usually isn’t a good thing. Lit wands drawn, they cross the now dark lawn back to the house. More Order members stagger from the drawing room, most of them bloody but alive: the Weasley twins support Mrs Weasley, who favours one of her ankles, and Professor McGonagall helps Dedalus Diggle stop the bleeding on a gash on his arm. Hermione’s chest is tight. She can’t see Severus.

“Did you also see that light?” Kiran asks, putting his wand away.

George nods. “I think it came from over there.” He points to a corridor running parallel to the drawing room.

There’s a cacophony of sounds from the portraits lining the corridor. It’s hard to make out exactly what they’re saying, but the words blood-traitors and Mudblood stand out. Hermione’s grip tightens on her wand.

“Shut up!”

Her words have the opposite effect, and the sound is almost deafening. Resisting the urge to set the whole bloody place on fire, she instead silences the portraits with a flick of her wand.

“Thanks,” Ron says, wrapping his hand around her elbow when she stumbles.

At the end of the corridor, they step through an open doorway. Hermione gasps. Moonlight streams through the gothic windows, reflecting on the pale body on the floor. Harry’s nose is bleeding, and his eyes are blank behind his glasses.

“Harry?”

Harry blinks and looks over at them. “I think I killed him,” he says, voice detached.

There are gasps and sounds of disbelief from behind her, then Dumbledore steps into the room. His face is grave.

“Is he really dead, Albus?” comes Minerva’s voice.

Dumbledore waves his wand in a circle over the body, then looks back at the group of people standing with bated breath.

“Tom Riddle is dead,” he says. “It’s over, my boy,” he directs at Harry, putting a hand on his shoulder.

Despite protests, Minerva ushers everyone from the room. They gather in the entrance hall, where the smell of blood and death clings to the air. Hermione tries to keep from looking at the bodies lying there. Glancing at the staircase, she recognises a wizard who was in the battle at the Department of Mysteries two years ago: his face twisted in agony and eyes unseeing. Hermione looks away. The pain in her shoulder makes her vision blurry and she blindly grasps for something to steady her. Her hand finds the sharp angles and cool wood of the bannister.

“Hermione?” Ron’s tone is worried.

She closes her eyes and wills the ground to stop moving. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” His arm wraps around her. “You should go to the Hospital Wing. Dumbledore’s set up Portkeys that’ll take you there. Come on.”

She only half-protests when he leads her to another small sitting room, where an assortment of cracked flower pots sit on an ornate wooden coffee table. Ron presses one into her hand and steps back.

“Wait, wait,” she says, fingers tightening around the ceramic pot. “Have you seen Severus?”

Ron frowns. “Snape? No, why?”

“I need to know that he’s all right, Ron.”

He hesitates, then nods. “I’ll find him, but you need to go. Are you ready?”

At her nod, he taps the Portkey with his wand.

-

Another dizzy spell has Hermione stumbling as she lands in the Hospital Wing. Someone grabs her shoulder to steady her, making her whimper.

“I’m sorry!” Ginny’s freckled face is pale, eyes worried.

“Bring her over here, Miss Weasley,” Madam Pomfrey calls out, and Hermione finds herself led to a free bed.

While Madam Pomfrey does a diagnostics charm, Hermione looks around the half-empty Hospital Wing. It seems the wave of injured people hasn’t hit yet. None of the people in the beds are Severus. Hermione’s chest tightens. Where is he?

“You have curse residue in your shoulder that needs to be taken care of, but I can’t detect any other injuries other than some bruising,” Madam Pomfrey says, tucking her wand into her apron pocket and taking out two vials. She hands one to Hermione. “Drink this.”

Hermione swallows the contents of the vial in two gulps, then coughs at the bitter taste. “What is that?”

“A healing potion for your shoulder and a pain relief one.”

Carefully rolling her shoulder, Hermione finds the pain has faded to a slight ache. She finds she can breathe easier.

“It’s already better,” she says. “How can I help?”

Madam Pomfrey gives her a look that’s both apologetic and sympathetic. “Normally I would like you to rest that shoulder, but I’m afraid it’s all hands on deck tonight. Rest for a few minutes, then I need your assistance.”

Hermione nods. “Of course, whatever you need.”

Madam Pomfrey hurries away to a nearby bed, leaving Hermione alone with her thoughts. Whenever she closes her eyes, she sees the blood pouring from between Dolohov’s fingers and the panic in his eyes. She swallows against the nausea. She can’t shake the feeling that something’s happened to Severus. It seemed the conduit did what it was supposed to, but there’s no knowing how it affected him. Her lower lip trembles. If she loses him now…

“Help!”

A Portkey has arrived with Fred supporting a barely conscious Bill, who is bleeding profusely from a cut on the side of his head. Hermione jumps off the bed to help. Her fears about the number of injured proved correct and within a few minutes the Hospital Wing is a frenzy of injured people.

When Harry arrives, Hermione hugs him tightly.

“All right?” he mumbles against her ear, chin resting on her shoulder.

“I will be.” She pulls back and looks him over for any injuries. He’s pale and seems shaken, but his nose has stopped bleeding. “What about you? Are you injured? Do I need to call for Madam Pomfrey?”

“I’m fine, I think.” Harry runs a hand through his hair. “I feel… I don’t know. I can’t believe he’s dead.”

Hermione blinks away tears. “Did we lose anyone?”

Harry sighs. “Moody. Kingsley found him upstairs; it looked like he took three Death Eaters with him.” He gives a sad smile. “At least he didn’t die for nothing.”

“Yes.” Hermione shivers.

If Moody is their only casualty, they’ve been luckier than she could imagine. She rolls her shoulders. She’s exhausted, both physically and mentally. Squeezing her hand, Harry walks down the Hospital Wing towards Ginny. Hermione watches their reunion with a lump in her throat. Almost everyone’s back from the fight. The sound of another Portkey arriving makes her turn, hoping to see Severus. Then she cries out. It is Severus, unconscious and being propped up by Arthur and Ron.

Madam Pomfrey rushes over. “Put him here, please. Hermione, I need your assistance.”

As Severus is put in the hospital bed, Hermione gasps.

“Madam Pomfrey, his hand!”

The matron hurries around to his left side and lifts Severus’ hand. Black tendrils underneath his skin run down it like spilt ink. Madam Pomfrey closes the curtains around the bed with a wave of her wand. Hermione can’t move or look away from his hand.

“We need to get these layers off him. Oh, now is not the time for modesty, Hermione. It’s a medical emergency.”

Hermione’s stomach turns when his layers are removed, exposing his upper body. The Dark Mark is jet black and appears to be throbbing. The bottom of the skull bleeds down into the black that’s now fully spread over his hand and fingers. Madam Pomfrey looks increasingly worried as she does several diagnostic spells. Even though Hermione can’t understand the runes, she knows it’s not good news. This has to be because of the conduit. She tries to remember what Severus told her about how the spell works, to find anything that could help, but her mind is blank.

The curtain rustles with a newcomer’s arrival. Dumbledore looks weary even before he takes in the sight of Severus’ form on the bed.

“Poppy?”

Madam Pomfrey cancels the runes. “I don’t think I can save his arm, Albus.”

Hermione gasps. “But he’s a Potions Master! He needs his hand!”

“I’ve never seen a curse like this,” Madam Pomfrey continues, voice wobbly. “His magic is depleting, and fast. If we let it spread further he might not make it.”

Dumbledore ducks his head and sighs. “So be it. Do you need assistance?”

She shakes her head. “Hermione and I can manage.”

Dumbledore looks at Hermione, seemingly noticing her for the first time. There’s a flash of sympathy on his face. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Hermione feels sick as Madam Pomfrey pours three different potions—a sedative, pain relief and one to stave off infection—down Severus’ throat.

“Hermione, come here, please.”

It’s only her ingrained response to an authority figure that makes her shaky legs move to Severus’ bedside.

“I need you to hold his arm still while I do the amputation,” Madam Pomfrey says, tying a tourniquet just above Severus’ elbow.

Gulping, Hermione grabs his upper arm tightly and moves it away from his body. His skin is slightly cool to the touch. The contrast with her touching him this morning—was it really just this morning—and now is... Hermione shuts her eyes tightly. She can’t watch this.

“Hold him steady.”

Hermione tightens her grip. Her hands are jostled, and there’s a smell of blood and burning flesh. She might be sick. She focuses on her breathing and recites arithmancy formulas to keep her mind occupied. Before long, the pressure against her hands lessens. Even with her eyes closed, she can tell his arm has been severed.

“You can open your eyes, Hermione.”

She does so reluctantly. Madame Pomfrey wraps a thick white bandage around the end of his arm and fastens it tightly. Hermione gently rests his arm back on the bed.

“These bandages should accelerate the healing process,” Madam Pomfrey says, running her hands over the bandage as if making sure it’s on properly, “and will alert us to any signs of infection. Would you mind keeping an eye on him for a bit while I check on other patients? If he starts bleeding through the bandage, come get me at once.”

Hermione nods. She doesn’t trust her voice at the moment. Madam Pomfrey pats her on the shoulder before disappearing behind the drawn curtain. The lump in Hermione’s throat grows bigger, but she pushes it down. She doesn’t have time to fall apart now. Severus needs her. There’s a blood smear on his torso just over his ribs. Spelling it away, Hermione tucks his hair behind his ears and pulls the blanket over his bare chest.

“I’m sorry, Severus,” she murmurs.

Pulling up a chair by the bed, she wraps her arms around her torso and watches the slow rise and fall of his chest. Even though she would have felt every moment of the amputation had Severus been awake, she can’t help wishing he would wake up. Her vision turns blurry, but she can’t look away. He has to wake up.

Chapter Text

Someone’s shaking her shoulder. Vision blurry, Hermione blinks until her eyes focus on Madam Pomfrey. The lights in the Hospital Wing have been dimmed, and a few beds down someone is snoring impressively.

“How long was I asleep?” Hermione asks, rubbing at her eyes and unfolding her body and sitting up. The pounding in her head doesn’t distract from her body feeling like it’s been filled with rocks. She stretches her neck with a wince.

“Less than half an hour.” Madam Pomfrey smiles softly. “Why don’t you clean up and get some rest, dear?

Hermione glances at Severus, who is still unconscious—or possibly sleeping. His eyes move rapidly behind his closed lids.

“It will be a while until he comes to,” Madam Pomfrey continues. “You can visit him in the morning.”

Knowing better than to argue, Hermione leaves the Hospital Wing. The castle is dark and silent but for the rain clattering on the windows. She’s not sure how she finds the energy to climb the stairs to the common room, but when she sinks onto a sofa she’s ready to drop. Hermione sighs deeply and looks at the ceiling. She should try to sleep. She blinks. The mantel clock chimes once.

There’s the sound of paws on the rug, then Crookshanks jumps up next to her. Meowing, he puts his front paws on her leg. Hermione’s lip trembles. When he pushes his head against her elbow, a sob breaks through. Crooks settles himself on her lap, purring as though it will fix everything and licking at her tears. Wrapping her arms around him, she gasps for breath.

“Hermione?”

She turns her head towards the stairs to the dorms. Ginny’s wearing pyjamas, her hair in a loose plait. Hermione blinks, trying to clear her vision, but the tears won’t stop. Her throat is thick and she attempts to gulp for air. The sofa dips when Ginny takes a seat.

“Try to breathe,” she says gently, hand rubbing circles on Hermione’s back.

Eyes squeezed shut, Hermione tries to control her sobs. She isn’t sure how long it takes before she can breathe somewhat normally, but Ginny’s hand doesn’t falter and Crookshanks keeps purring away on her lap.

“Do you feel better?”

Hermione sniffs and wipes at her face. “I’m not sure.”

Ginny hesitates. “Is it Snape?”

She nods. “He’s still unconscious. Madam Pomfrey had to…” She swallows hard, practically smelling the burning flesh. “Something happened with the Dark Mark. She couldn’t save his arm.”

Ginny’s hand falters. “Oh.” She clears her throat. “He’ll be fine.”

Hermione brushes away a tear from Crookshanks’ ear. “I can’t lose him.”

There’s a pause. “Is there something going on between you?”

She sniffles. The previous evening runs on repeat in her mind: Severus’ hands on her body, his voice in her ear. The way he held her tight when she feared she was about to shatter into stardust. Hermione can’t bring herself to say anything; afraid that if she does, she will lose him. Fortunately, Ginny seems to understand.

“Why don’t you try to get some sleep?” she asks softly.

Hermione looks at Ginny’s slightly hazy outline. “Will you stay?”

Ginny nods. “Come on.”

Holding Crookshanks in her arms, Hermione lets Ginny lead her upstairs.

-

Pain. Severus has spent more time than most wondering what death would feel like, but he didn’t consider there would be pain. A sharp, antiseptic smell burns his nostrils, mixed with something softer, floral. He tries to open his eyes. Everything’s still dark. Something cold gets pressed against his forehead. A low voice says something he can’t make out, but the sound is comforting.

-

The next time he gains consciousness, the world is bright even behind his tightly shut eyes. He groans. There’s more pain—sweet Merlin, the pain. Someone places a gentle hand on his cheek and something cool and made of glass is pressed against his lips. A vial.

“For the pain,” says a soothing voice. Though he can’t place it, he knows he can trust it.

He recognises the taste as both pain relief and a sleeping draught. Exhaling deeply, he tries to focus on the voice.

-

Severus blinks his eyes open with great effort. Golden light shines through the windows, bathing the Hospital Wing and the familiar figure hunched over in a chair. As he watches, Hermione lifts her gaze from her book. Her eyes widen.

“You’re awake!” Putting the book on the chair, she is by his side.

He attempts to speak, but his throat is so dry nothing comes out.

“Oh, sorry,” Hermione says.

She takes a glass of water from the bedside table and puts it to his lips. Severus hates the indignity of needing her help to lift his head, but the cool water works wonders on his dry lips and throat. He pulls away, and Hermione puts the glass to the side.

“The Dark Lord?” he croaks, laying his head back down on the pillow.

“Dead. Harry killed him.” Hermione pulls the chair closer to the bedside. She pushes his hair back from where it’s fallen into his eyes, fingers lingering on his skin.

“The conduit worked as we thought?”

Her eyes flicker down, and her cheeks flush. “It did. Professor Dumbledore said it’s the reason we didn’t lose more people. Moody and Irma Grogan,” she continues before he can ask.

“Were you hurt?”

She smiles softly and tucks a curl behind her ear. “Not badly, just my shoulder. Madam Pomfrey’s fixed me up. Do you want more water?”

“Yes, and some proper clothes,” Severus says. He attempts to sit up, only to fall to his left. Pushing his hair from his face, he looks at the stump where his left arm used to be. He tries to move his fingers, but nothing happens. He looks at Hermione. Her face is pale.

The curtain around the bed is pulled back and Poppy comes through. Seeing him, she smiles.

“I’m glad to see you awake, Severus,” she says, waving her wand in his direction. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m feeling like I want an explanation for why I’m missing a bloody arm,” he snaps, hoisting himself to a seated position with some difficulty.

“The Dark Mark was poisoning you.” Poppy waves away the medical runes and pockets her wand. “By the time you were brought here it had spread to your hand. Removing your arm saved your life.”

Severus glances at Hermione. Her face is sad.

“I need to check that it’s healing properly,” Poppy continues. “Hermione, could you assist me, please?”

Hermione hesitates. “I’m not sure…”

“It’s all right,” Severus says, laying back against the pillow. He’s exhausted, and pain radiates from his left shoulder.

He keeps his gaze on the slowly fading sunlight as Poppy unwraps the bandages. Her touch is soft on his skin, but he jerks when she touches the end of his arm. A dunnock flutters up to the window.

“It’s healing nicely, and there are no traces of dark magic,” Poppy says. “The likelihood of complications is small.”

Severus huffs. “No complications other than an amputated arm.”

The dunnock flies off. He wishes he could go with it.

Poppy reapplies the bandage. “You still have a slight fever, but if that breaks over the night you can leave in the morning.” She pats his leg. “I’ll be in my office if you need anything. Visiting hours end on the hour,” she directs at Hermione.

“Thank you, Madam Pomfrey,” Hermione says.

Severus looks away from the window. Hermione is back in the chair and fidgeting with the edge of her jumper. Severus swallows hard. He should say something. The curtain moves again.

“Ah, Severus,” Dumbledore says. “There are some things I need to discuss with you. Miss Granger, why don’t you go join your friends?”

“Oh. Of course, Professor,” she says, then glances at Severus before leaving.

“The outcome of the conduit is better than I imagined,” Dumbledore says, taking the seat Hermione previously occupied. “Everyone bearing the mark has been found dead.”

Manoeuvring himself to rest against the headboard, Severus snorts. “I’m not sure better is the word I would use.”

“A poor choice of words; I apologise.” Dumbledore sighs. “It would appear the conduit harvested the magic it drained from the other Dark Marks and put it into your mark. It’s what made the dark magic spread through your body.” His gaze lingers on Severus’ bandaged arm.

Severus feels like a zoo animal. “Why didn’t it kill me?”

Dumbledore leans back in the chair and clasps his hands in front of him. “I believe the soul bond is the reason for that. It’s only a theory, but I believe that your soul being tethered to Miss Granger caused her to anchor your life to hers.”

“Was she affected by the conduit too?”

“From what I can tell, no. Madam Pomfrey did a thorough exam to be on the safe side.”

Severus’ chest gets a little lighter.

“I’ve been in meetings with the Minister for several hours today,” Dumbledore continues. “There are a lot of things that need doing now that Tom’s dead. Oh, and there’s a group of reporters by the front gates, should you want to get fresh air.”

“Fudge has finally come to his senses, I assume?”

Dumbledore chuckles. “He has and is being most helpful. I will most likely be away from the castle the next few days, so I’ve left it in Minerva’s capable hands.”

“My sympathies for those reporters if she sees them.”

“I agree. I will leave you to rest.” Dumbledore stands and clasps his shoulder. “You’re free of Tom now, my boy.”

Severus is left alone with his thoughts. He attempts to move his left arm, taking note of how it behaves now. He does his best to ignore the itching on his elbow. The bandages go up to the middle of his upper arm, and he doesn’t fancy explaining to Poppy how he got his wand stuck in them. His eyelids grow heavy. The brief time sitting and talking has taken more energy than he’d care to admit.

-

Severus is released the next morning with strict orders from Poppy to take it easy and to come back the following day for a check-up. She puts a pile of clothing on the chair and thankfully pulls the curtains closed around the bed. Severus eyes the clothes. He never realised just how many buttons there are, but he’d rather drink bubotuber pus than ask for help getting dressed. He’s a grown man, for Merlin’s sake.

Pants and trousers go all right—his face grows warm thinking about Poppy removing them, even though she most likely did it with magic—but as predicted it takes more than twice as long to do up the buttons. There’s no chance in hell he’ll manage with his shirt buttons, though. He lets his head fall forward with a sigh. Fuck. Concentrating on his magic, he focuses on making the buttons go into the buttonholes. Cold sweat breaks out on his brow. His cuff buttons are only half done up and he feels lightheaded.

“Are you decent?” comes Poppy’s voice from the other side of the curtain.

Severus snorts. “You’ve seen worse, I assure you.”

She tuts. “You should have asked me for help.”

He arches a brow. “And have you dress me like an invalid?”

“You are not an invalid; you have suffered a traumatic injury, and your magic needs time to heal.”

With a flick of her wrist, the rest of his buttons do themselves up. Poppy looks at him sternly.

“There’s no shame in asking for help, Severus.”

Severus silently disagrees.

When he gets back to his quarters, he finds himself forlorn. His conduit research is still on his desk, and through the half-open bedroom door, he spots the edge of his rumpled duvet. Those things belong to a different life. Severus scrubs his hand over his face. He’s not sure what to do now.

He decides to make himself a cuppa. Much like getting dressed, there are difficulties he hadn’t anticipated. He’s barely stopping himself from throwing the bloody mug at the wall when there’s a timid knock on the door to the lab. Hermione looks tired, with dark smudges underneath her eyes. Her arms are wrapped around her torso, making her seem smaller and more fragile.

“Hi,” she says softly. “Can I come in?”

Severus moves aside. He catches a waft of her floral shampoo when she moves past him.

“I went to the Hospital Wing,” she says. “Harry said he spoke with you earlier.”

Moving his cloak from the sofa so they can sit, Severus snorts. Potter had spent a few very long, awkward, minutes by his bedside making Severus wish his ears were cursed off instead of his arm.

“There was an attempt, yes. We’re lucky Potter didn’t need to talk the Dark Lord into surrendering; we’d be kissing his robes right now if that were the case.”

Hermione blinks, then chuckles. “You make him nervous.”

“Good. Would you like some tea?”

“No, thank you.” She curls her legs underneath her, making her knee rest against his thigh. “How are you feeling?” There’s no pity in her voice or on her face.

Severus clears his throat. “I believe it will be some time before I have an answer to that.”

“Of course, how daft of me.” She sniffles. “I’ve tried to figure out why the conduit caused… what happened. Maybe there was something I could have done.”

“There wasn’t.”

She looks surprised, and Severus shares Dumbledore’ theory both about the conduit and the soul bond. Hermione’s brow furrows and her eyes shift to his empty sleeve. Unlike his conversation with the Headmaster, the action doesn’t make him want to hide.

“The soul bond saved your life?” she asks when he’s finished.

Severus nods. “Yes.” The words ‘You saved my life’ get caught in his throat. They’re better left unsaid. He clears his throat. “How are you doing?”

She looks away, chin wobbling. He raises his arm to pull her close, then remembers she’s on his left side. He puts his hand on her knee instead.

“Hermione…”

“I’m fine!” She wipes at her eyes. “Honestly,” her voice breaks on the word. “It’s just all catching up with me. The fight, killing people, your injury.”

Severus ignores the discomfort in his left arm. “I’m sorry you had to do that.”

Hermione gives a watery smile and covers his hand with hers. “It’s okay. I knew I would have to. I just wasn’t prepared for there to be so much blood. Slicing hex,” she adds.

“I’m still sorry.”

She sniffles. “Then seeing you unconscious in the Hospital Wing…” Pausing, she inhales shakily. “I thought I’d lost you.”

His chest tightens until he can hardly breathe. “I’m right here, Hermione. I’m not going anywhere.”

She squeezes his hand. Her mouth stretches in a yawn, and she covers it with her hand. “Sorry. I’m still exhausted.”

“That’s understandable with all that’s happened,” Severus says. “I suspect the soul bond is partly to blame as well. Are you sleeping?”

Her face flushes. “Between the nightmares?”

“I don’t usually condone it, but a bit of Dreamless Sleep wouldn’t be amiss. There’s some in the lab.”

Hermione hums. “I’ll grab some before I leave.”

His chest grows tight. “Leave?”

“To visit my parents; they got home last night from the safe house.” She squeezes his hand. “I need to see them.”

“You don’t need my permission or blessing to go,” Severus says.

She smiles softly. “I know. I just didn’t want you to think I was abandoning you. Especially now.”

He rubs his thumb against her skin. “Go see your parents. I’ll be here when you get back.”

Hermione touches his cheek, stroking her thumb across his cheekbone. Severus presses his lips against her palm, trying to shake the feeling he’s already lost her.

Chapter Text

The slowly setting sun casts the living room in a dim light, which is only lit by the crackling fire and a buffet table lamp. Hermione yawns. She’s curled up on the sofa with her parents, half paying attention to the Coronation Street theme playing on the TV. They’ve spent the entire day at the dinner table talking about the events of the past month, with the occasional tears from all of them—though her dad blamed newly discovered allergies.

“I’m so glad you’re safe,” her mum says, stroking her hair like she used to do when Hermione was little. “It’s unfathomable that this Headmaster of yours let children fight!”

Hermione’s grip on her tea mug tightens. This isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation today. “I’ve explained the prophecy to you, Mum, remember?”

“Yes, but you said that was about Harry. There was no reason for you or Ron to join him. You could have been seriously injured.”

Closing her eyes, Hermione sees Dolohov’s wide eyes and the blood spilling over his fingers. So much blood. A copper smell fills her nose, making her stomach turn. She inhales deeply. The smell of blood is replaced by smoke and her dad’s aftershave. She recalls holding the glass bottle firmly while perched on the closed toilet seat and watching him shave. She took her job very seriously, and liked how smooth her dad’s cheek felt when he kissed her cheek.

Hermione sighs. “I wasn’t.” Seriously, anyway. “I don’t expect you to understand; you don’t know what it’s been like.”

“Of course, love,” her dad says, patting her knee. “But you can’t fault us for being worried. You’re our little girl, it’s our job to protect you.”

“I know, Dad.”

“We’ve only had that to keep us updated,” he continues, “and honestly it’s worse than The Sun. I doubt most of it’s true?”

Hermione looks at the folded copy of the Daily Prophet on the coffee table. It’s full of articles regarding the battle, some things true and some not. Rita Skeeter’s name on a few of them made her roll her eyes.

“Some of it is.”

“Even what happened to your professor?” her mum asks.

The Prophet hadn’t been kind about Severus, posting an article—penned by Rita Skeeter, of course—about him being a Death Eater for all these years and choosing his loyalties depending on the winning side. Hermione had to stop reading that one, lest she set the whole bloody paper on fire. They mention his injury—with the heavy implication of it being self-inflicted to gain sympathy—but not the conduit. Which is good: the fewer people who know about it, the better.

“No, that part is true,” Hermione says, watching as a hysterical Deirdre gets sedated in the prison hospital. “He lost his arm.”

“Poor man,” her dad says. “I take it there’s no… spell, or what have you, that can grow back a limb?”

Hermione swallows the lump in her throat. “There isn’t, no.”

Her mum’s arm brushes against her back.

“Right.” Her dad slaps his hands on his knees and rises. “Those bins won’t take themselves out. Terrible smell.”

As he leaves the room, her mum turns towards her. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Taking a sip of her tea, Hermione grimaces. It’s gone cold.

“I think you do.” Her mum smiles gently. “I may not be as involved with your life as I used to be, but I’m still your mother and I can tell something’s on your mind.”

Hermione hesitates. “You will be disappointed in me.”

Her mum touches her shoulder. “Does it make you happy?”

Hermione nods.

“Then that’s all that matters.”

Hermione isn’t so sure. Taking a deep breath—and still cradling her cold mug of tea like a lifetime—she tells her mum about the soul bond and Severus. It’s an abridged version—some things you can’t say to your mother, and ‘I shagged my Potions professor’ is one of them—but as detailed as she can muster.

“The potion will be ready on Thursday, and I don’t know what will happen after that,” she finishes, turning her eyes to the end credits roll on the TV as the silence stretches.

“I see,” her mum finally says.

Hermione isn’t sure what to expect. Her mum isn’t the yelling kind, but she’s mastered silent disappointment route.

“Have you talked to him about how you’re feeling?”

Hermione almost drops her mug in surprise. “You’re not angry with me?”

Her mum chuckles softly. “Love, why would I be angry? It sounds like this is something you both fell into unknowingly. I’ve been corresponding with Molly Weasley a lot since Christmas,” she continues, “to get a better insight into your world from another mother. There are so many things I’ve got to learn, and there are shockingly few books available to Muggle parents of witches and wizards. Maybe I could write one in the future and retire to the Algarve,” she adds with a laugh. “Your father would like that.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? I could have answered your questions, or tried to find books for you to read.”

“It’s not a child’s job to explain things like this to their parents.” Her mum brushes her hand over Hermione’s shoulder. “I also wanted a mother’s perspective. I knew that if you ever decided to marry or have children they would be a part of a culture I knew nothing about, which didn’t sit very right with me. I don’t want to be a stranger in your world, Hermione.”

“I’m sorry if I’ve kept you out,” Hermione says. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Oh, darling, it’s all right. Now back to your young man.”

Hermione is about to protest about Severus being called that, but bites her tongue. Her parents are more than fifteen years older than him, after all.

“It’s entirely possible he feels as lost as you are.”

“I know.” Hermione sighs. “I just don’t want to… I don’t know… He has more important things to worry about at the moment than me.”

“If he truly cares about you he will want to know how you’re feeling,” her mum points out.

“I suppose.” She smiles. “Thank you, Mum.”

“Of course, love.” Her mum pats her knee. “It’s best I tell your father he can come back in before he catches a cold. He thought we might need some mother and daughter time.”

As her mum leaves the room, Hermione puts her mug on the coffee table. On the TV, the camera pans over a lavish Cornwall estate.

-

Severus gives an exasperated sigh. Doing up his cravat and buttons with magic is getting easier, but still takes effort. He knows it will take time before his magic is fully restored, but it doesn’t stop him from wanting to throw something at the wall every time a spell fails to do as intended. Wand secured, he leaves his quarters. He’s got a meeting with Dumbledore, which he suspects is little more than an excuse to draw him from his quarters, where he’s been spending his time since being released from the Hospital Wing.

He uses the hidden passageway behind a stone bust of Victor the three-eyed wizard, which leads out just around the corner from the Headmaster’s office. The wooden door at the top of the spiral staircase opens before he gets the chance to knock.

“Headmaster,” he says and nods his head.

“Do sit, Severus. How are you faring?” Dumbledore says, looking at Severus over his half-moon shaped glasses.

“Adjusting,” Severus replies, crossing one ankle over the other.

There’s something akin to pity on Dumbledore’s face, and Severus hopes he isn’t about to get a speech on his great sacrifice to the cause.

“I’ve spoken to the Minister this morning about what transpired at Malfoy Manor on Good Friday,” Dumbledore says, “and the role you have played over these past twenty years.”

Ah. That’s why he was summoned. “Shall I start packing my bags?”

Dumbledore looks surprised. “What do you mean?”

“I assume Fudge, mindful of election year next year, is making an example out of me. I hear Azkaban is lovely this time of year.”

Dumbledore chuckles, making Severus’ brow arch.

“Our conversation was quite the opposite, I assure you. Your actions both in the past and during the battle, with the conduit, ensured our victory. You should be proud of yourself.”

Severus very much doubts that.

“What of the Slytherin students affected by the battle? Many of them will have lost either one or both parents.”

Dumbledore sighs, shoulders slumping. “I will provide help for them the best I can, but I can’t force them to accept it. Mr Nott and Ms Parkinson have already left the school and don’t mean to return.”

Severus rubs his neck. This doesn’t surprise him. The question now becomes how many will follow their lead, either because of their families’ connections or fear there won’t be a place for them at the school anymore. Once the Easter Break is over he’ll have a talk with the remaining students and try to reassure them.

“Then there’s the matter of Miss Granger.”

He flinches.

“It’s clear to me from her manners in the Hospital Wing you’re involved in some capacity.”

Severus is so taken aback he can’t find the words to contradict Dumbledore’s. Shame burns through him.

Dumbledore sighs. “I had my concerns the soul bond might cause something like this.”

“Do you think so little of me? Or her?” Severus says coldly. “The soul bond is to blame only for forcing us to see beyond our previous relationship. Nothing more.”

Dumbledore looks surprised. “You truly care for her?”

Severus swallows hard. “I do. More than I thought possible.”

“Be that as it may, I cannot condone this while she’s still a student in this school.”

Body tense, Severus nods. “Of course.”

Leaving the office a few minutes later, his mind is on the conversation he just had. He’s not sure which he finds more surprising: Dumbledore finding out about him and Hermione, or that the thought he might never crossed Severus’ mind. He scrubs his hand over his face. The lines he put down have been blurred these past weeks and he can only blame himself. His resolve was broken by her soft touch and gentle eyes, and if he were a stronger man he might have been able to walk away. It’s too late for that now.

-

Hermione Apparates to Hogwarts just before lunch. She would have preferred to stay with her parents for a few days more, but there are things she needs to do and—maybe most importantly—N.E.W.T.s to study for. She squints against the spring sunshine, a sharp contrast to the grey drizzle she left behind in Eynsham. As her eyes adjust she takes notice of a handful of reporters standing by the front gates. Bloody brilliant. One of them looks over and, noticing her, calls her name. They’re on her like flies straight away.

“No comment,” she says, keeping her head down and trudging forwards.

The reporters are all talking over each other with their questions, and she’s starting to panic.

“She said no comment!” comes a familiar deep voice.

Hermione shoots Kingsley a grateful smile as he closes the front gates behind her.

“Thank you,” she says as they continue towards the castle. “Don’t that lot ever give up?”

He chuckles. “It doesn’t seem like it. One of them tried to get past the gates last night, so Dumbledore reinforced the wards. It’s also why I’m here, on the Minister’s orders.”

Hermione isn’t surprised by that in the slightest. When they get closer to the castle, she spots three familiar figures sitting in the sun. Saying goodbye to Kingsley, she approaches them.

“Hello, Hermione,” Harry says, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand. “How were your parents?”

“Good.” Hermione sits next to Ron and crosses her legs. “They’re happy to be home.”

“I’ll bet. I’m glad they’re all right.”

Smiling, Hermione nudges Ron’s shoulder. “I am too. Anything new happen here?”

“Not really,” Ginny says. “Mum’s started nagging us about exams, so I suppose that means things have gone back to normal.”

“A new normal.” Harry runs a hand through his hair. “Does anyone else feel like Voldemort’s just going to jump out from behind a suit of armour and hex us?”

They all nod in agreement.

“I don’t even know how to move forward now, you know?” he continues. “Suddenly there’s a future to plan, when I didn’t think I had one.”

“Yeah, mate. We could do anything.” Ron pulls out a blade of grass and rips it in half. “We could travel anywhere we wanted, or work on a fishing boat.”

Hermione chokes back a laugh. “Work on a fishing boat? Have you been reading Muggle novels again?”

The tips of his ears turn pink. “I’m just saying.”

Fishing boats aside, he’s right. Hermione used to have clear goals: sit her N.E.W.T.s and then work at the Ministry at the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures department. Now she’s not so sure. Working on the soul bond potion and learning how charms and arithmancy can be used with potions has piqued her interest, but she has no idea if it’s something she wants to pursue after Hogwarts.

“If we don’t pass our N.E.W.T.s it won’t matter what we want to do,” Harry says. “Library after lunch?”

Hermione shakes her head. “I’ll catch up with you later. There’s something I need to do first.”

-

The lab is in disarray. The doors to the ingredients cabinet are open, and both ingredients and notebooks litter the worktops. Severus is bent over a notebook and makes no sign he’s heard her arrive.

“Hi,” she says, removing her jacket and putting it on a nearby stool. “What are you doing?”

“Inventory.” Severus writes something in his notebook and turns his back to look at something in the cabinet. “There are several potions I am now unable to brew—which includes a number of variations I’ve created for the Hospital Wing—due to them being charmed or requiring simultaneously stirring while adding ingredients.” Going back to his notebook, he scribbles something else.

“Do you want any help?”

“No.”

Hermione’s stomach sinks. She’s barely been gone for a day but already feels like everything’s changed. To keep herself busy she checks on the soul bond potion. It’s almost fully transparent. Only three more days until it will be ready, and then… Hermione isn’t sure what will happen. She braces herself and turns towards Severus.

“Is something going on?”

“I’m quite sure I don’t know what you mean,” he replies curtly.

She puts her hands on her hips. “Then why won’t you look at me?”

Pausing his scribbling, Severus does just that. His black eyes soften. “I apologise. I want to get the majority of this finished today.” He closes the notebook. “Did you just get back?”

“I did.” Dropping her arms, Hermione finds herself apprehensive. “There’s something I wanted to talk with you about.”

His face betrays nothing. “So do I.” Severus’ jaw clenches, briefly. “Why don’t you sit?”

Hermione wraps her arms around herself. She has a feeling she won’t make it out of this conversation with her heart intact. “I think I’d rather stand.”

“The Headmaster knows.”

That’s the last thing she expected him to say.

“He doesn’t know any details,” Severus continues, shoulders slumping, “but he’s aware something is going on.”

“I see.” Hermione wets her lips. She’s having a difficult time calming her mind enough to think clearly. “So that’s it? We’re going to pretend nothing’s happened?”

He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s not what I’m saying, but it might be for the best if we put an end to this now.”

She lets out a joyless laugh, anger pushing through her hurt. “We’ve had this conversation before, Severus, remember?” Letting her arms fall to her side, she crosses over to him and clasps his hand in hers. “I don’t care what people will say about me. If they choose to judge me based on who I’m with, they can piss off. They don’t matter, and they don’t get a say in what makes me happy.”

Severus’ eyes darken, then his lips descend on hers. A noise of surprise escapes her before her eyes flutter shut. He pulls his hand from hers to wrap around her waist, tugging her closer as his tongue parts her lips. She clutches his shoulders to keep her balance. He moves away first but keeps a firm arm around her waist while leaning his forehead against hers.

Hermione swallows against the lump in her throat.

Chapter Text

Hermione’s pen taps against her book. Tap tap tap. A sigh. Tap tap tap. She turns a page. Tap tap tap.

“Could you give that a rest? I’m trying to focus.”

She raises her gaze. That she managed to drag Ron to the library when the weather is perfect for Quidditch is strange enough, but him studying? It’s almost enough to convince her she’s dreaming.

“Sorry.”

Frustratingly enough, her focus seems non-existent. Her planner is open on the table, the colour-coded blocks mocking her with how much revising she should have done today. Hermione rubs her tired eyes. She didn’t get a lot of sleep last night; her mind kept playing the conversation with Severus on repeat.

There’s a pain in her leg. She raises her brows.

“Did you just kick me?”

“Yes, you weren’t listening to me.” Ron leans forward. “I’ve given you plenty of time to bring this up yourself, but since that doesn’t seem to be happening...”

Hermione’s brows lift further.

“Do you fancy telling me what that was about at the manor? The Severus,” he says the name like it's a curse, combined with a grimace.

Oh. She has no memory of slipping up like that. “Do you really want to know?”

His grimace deepens. “When you put it like that, I’m not sure I do.”

That might be for the best. If his reaction when finding out about the soul bond is any indication, knowing the full extent of her relationship with Severus will be a hard pill to swallow. She’ll deal with that when she has to.

“Hey.” Ron sounds oddly serious. “If something’s going on, you can tell me.”

Hermione smiles. “I know, Ron. How’s your revising going?”

The grimace returns. “I’m going to fail everything.”

“You’re not going to fail everything.” She leans over the table. “What are you reading now?”

They make it as far as her fifth-year Defence Against the Dark Arts notes when they’re joined by Harry and Ginny. They look windswept and share glances which make it clear to Hermione what they’ve been doing.

“Hello.” Ginny grins, taking the seat next to Ron. “Revision?”

“In theory,” Ron says. “Where have you been?”

Harry looks anywhere but at Ginny. “Quidditch pitch.”

Hermione covers her snort with a cough. Ron’s ears turn pink.

“What are we studying?” Harry says, putting his books on the table.

“DADA, fifth year.” Ron is still stubbornly refusing to look at them.

“That won’t take long. Did we learn anything from Umbridge?”

“To not antagonise centaurs?” Ginny says.

Harry snorts.

“Which is why,” Hermione says, moving Dark Arts Defence: Basics for Beginners out of the way in favour of Confronting the Faceless, “we’re moving on to sixth year. When we actually had a competent teacher.”

“Remus was competent too.”

Looking at Harry, Hermione smiles softly. “I know. I didn’t mean to imply he wasn’t.”

“It’s a bit sad we’ve only had, what, four competent Defence teachers in seven years,” Ron says.

Ginny frowns. “Four?”

“Lupin, Moody, Snape, Fleur.”

“Moody was a Death eater!” Hermione protests.

“Well...” He looks sheepish.

“Don’t even finish that sentence,” she says coldly.

“I wasn’t gonna. I’m just saying that even though Moody—Crouch, whatever—was a Death Eater he was still more competent than both Umbridge and Lockhart.”

Harry snorts. “That is depressing, mate.”

Ron shrugs. “Just calling it as I see it.”

Hermione chuckles. “If we’re done ranking our professors, maybe we can get back to studying?”

-

Rolling to his back, Severus stares at the ceiling and tries to ignore his body’s response to the dream still lingering in his mind. It’s been a few weeks since he was a spectator in Hermione’s dreams, and that one was filled with an ominous feeling of dread and foreboding. This one was anything but. He scrubs a hand over his face. He still feels the ghost of her touch on his skin and the way she fell apart around him. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget her face in that moment, which makes the notion of walking the corridors over the next months knowing he can’t touch her almost unbearable. His skin pebbles as he stumbles to the bathroom for a shower. He washes quickly in the cold water. Of course, quickly anything these days isn’t quick at all. He grits his teeth as he painstakingly fastens each button on his clothing.

There’s a brisk knock on his door. The list of people who would do such a thing at this hour is short, so he isn’t surprised to find Minerva waiting for him.

“Good morning,” he says. “I hope you’re not here to talk to me about timetables or lesson plans. If so, I’d have to ask you to come back at a more decent hour in the day.”

Minerva scoffs. “Hardly. I thought we could go to breakfast together.”

His brow arches. “Never once since I started teaching have we walked to breakfast together.”

“That’s because you usually skip it.” Her gaze softens. “You’ve been hiding, Severus. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. You haven’t left your quarters in days.”

While technically not true, Severus knows better than to argue with her. “Give me a moment.”

Turning away from the door, he shrugs into his robes. His empty left sleeve becomes tangled in the robe sleeve, and he mutters a low curse. After straightening it, he slips his wand into its holster.

“Will you choose my food for me too, or am I trusted with that decision?” He steps into the corridor and closes the door behind him. The wards shimmer in place.

Minerva rolls her eyes. “I’ll have less cheek from you, lad.”

The pitying looks and overly familiar greetings from the other professors as he takes his seat at the staff table almost make him turn around and leave. After pouring himself a coffee, he plucks a piece of toast from the rack.

“It’s good to see you, Severus,” Filius says, gaze decidedly south of Severus’ face.

Severus substitutes an answer with a sip of coffee. He’s thankful for the near emptiness of the Great Hall; there are barely two dozen students who decided to stay over the Easter holiday. In just a few days it’ll once again be filled to the brim and life will continue. His jaw clenches. A pinching pain on the outside of his elbow has been bothering him all morning and is increasingly harder to ignore.

He glances out over the tables until his eyes lock with familiar brown ones. There’s a twinge in his sternum. Only one day until they’re no longer bound together. Hermione looks away first, seemingly responding to something said by Ginevra. The two of them leave the hall soon after.

Severus doesn’t linger over breakfast—the toast feels heavy in his stomach and the increasing pain in his arm isn’t helping. Poppy is putting new linens on a bed when he enters the Hospital Wing. Everyone admitted after the battle has been discharged, and all beds remain unoccupied. Straightening, Poppy looks over at him and startles.

“Sweet Merlin,” she says, one hand on her chest.

“I apologise. Is this a bad time?”

“No, no, not at all.” She straightens the blanket on the bed. “Let’s remove those bandages, shall we?”

Poppy draws the curtains around the bed while he removes his robes and shirt.

“Any pain?”

“On and off,” he says through gritted teeth as she puts her hand right onto the spot the pain is radiating from.

“That’s to be expected, unfortunately. I can give you some more pain potions but I suspect you’re already brewing your own?”

“Not yet, no.” Severus keeps his gaze straight ahead as Poppy starts unwrapping the bandages. “I’d like to do more research into potions effective for nerve pain that aren’t addictive. If such a thing exists.”

Poppy chuckles softly. “If anyone is going to find it, it’ll be you. The wound is healing beautifully, so there’s no need to keep the bandages on.” She drops her hands and steps back. “Do you have any questions?”

“I’m making inquiries to find you another potions supplier,” Severus says, shrugging back into his shirt. “There should be enough non-perishables left to last you the rest of the term.”

Her eyes turn sad. “Oh, don’t worry about that, Severus. I’ve been very fortunate to have you brewing my potions for nigh on twenty years.”

He does up his cuff with a wandless spell. “It was nothing.”

“Nonsense. Your contributions have been far greater than I could ever say.” She pats his knee. “Let me worry about my stock.”

-

Wrangling her curls into a French plait, Hermione huffs out a sigh. She’s had an unsettling feeling in her chest all day she can’t shake. It’s entirely possible it doesn’t belong to her at all, which is both comforting and sad. Giving herself a final check in the mirror—which thankfully stays silent for once—she leaves the common room. She’s known about this day for months, but now it’s here she doesn’t know how to feel about it. There’s no doubt in her mind it’s the right thing to do: it would be madness to keep the soul bond active. They’ve no idea what it could turn into over time, or how else it’s affecting them. Despite that, there’s an insistent and rather rude voice in the back of her mind telling her that breaking the soul bond will make Severus realise he doesn’t have feelings for her after all. That voice has become louder these past few days. She hasn’t seen or spoken to Severus since their talk on Monday—other than at yesterday’s breakfast in the Great Hall—and she’s not sure how she’ll manage acting like nothing’s going on for the coming months.

She’s the first one in the lab, which she doesn’t mind. It gives her some time to gather herself. The disarray from the previous time she was there has been cleared away, but something feels off about the space. It takes her a moment to realise that other than the soul bond potion, there’s no other potion brewing. There usually always is, either for the Hospital Wing or for Severus’ research. It makes the room feel cold. Hermione wraps her arms around herself.

The door opens, and Severus steps into the lab. It’s such a familiar thing she can almost trick herself it’s no different than usual, other than it being the last time.

She forces a smile. “I feel like we missed an opportunity to make a party out of this. Happy ‘get your soul back’ day.”

Severus snorts. “If you think for a second I would let you force me into wearing a party hat, you’re not as clever as I thought.”

Hermione chuckles. “I don’t know, you’d look quite fetching in one.”

The corners of his mouth lift. A sense of longing spreads through her chest, its warmth at once comforting and bittersweet.

Severus clears his throat. “Shall we? There’s no sense in putting it off further.”

They step over to the workstation, and Hermione douses the flame underneath the cauldron. The potion is fully translucent, a bit thicker than water and emits a faint herbal scent when she stirs it. There’s only one step left before the potion is ready. The blade of the silver knife in Severus’ hand glistens softly in the low light. Hermione holds her hand over the cauldron, thumb extended. Severus makes a quick cut. She hisses and lets three drops of blood drip into the potion before pulling her hand back.

“Let me,” Severus murmurs, hovering his hand over hers.

The cut heals instantly and the remaining blood is vanished. Hermione rubs the pad of her thumb against her index finger. There’s no pain or other sign of the cut being there. She holds out her hand, palm up.

“Now you.”

Severus doesn’t flinch when she cuts into his thumb and directs three drops of crimson blood into the cauldron. He pulls his hand back, healing the cut himself. She clears her throat.

“Ten minutes or so until it’s cool enough to drink?”

“Yes,” Severus says. The blood-stained knife is cleaned with a wordless spell and put to the side.

Hermione wets her lips. More waiting. Honestly, she’s had enough of waiting for this bloody potion.

“Classes start again soon,” she says, because it feels safer than what she really wants to say.

Severus scoffs. “Unfortunately.”

“It’s going to feel strange to go back to how things were before.” Hermione forces a half-smile. “Nothing is the same, really.”

“It isn’t, no.”

Her gaze shifts to his empty sleeve. The weight of his arm being severed is heavy against her palms. “How are you adjusting?”

“One day at a time.”

“You’ll let me know if there’s anything you need?”

He smiles, so briefly that she almost misses it. “Yes.”

The moment stretches. Merlin, this is hard. Hermione looks at her shoes. She won’t admit to Severus that she’s scared of what breaking the soul bond will mean.

“I think the potion has cooled enough,” she says at length, eyes flickering back to him. “How much do you think we need to drink? All of it?”

Severus nods. “I think that’s best, just to be safe.”

Turning from him, she fetches two goblets and portions an equal amount of potion into them. Severus holds his hand out, and Hermione hesitates for a moment before handing him the goblet. She brings her goblet to her mouth and takes a hesitant sip. It’s the consistency of cordial and tastes faintly of peppermint. She’s not sure what she was expecting, but not that. Putting the empty goblet back on the worktop, she looks at Severus.

“How will we know if it’s—oh.” Her eyes widen. A strange feeling floods through her, rushing through every part like fire. She gasps, a hand flying to her chest. She feels… empty, for lack of a better word. As though her insides have turned into smoke and she’s turned hollow. She exhales shakily. “That might take a while to get used to.”

Severus still cradles his goblet, looking at it as though it’s a mystery for him to solve. “I underestimated the effect the soul bond had on us.”

She rubs her hand against her hollow chest. “And now it’s gone. What do we do now?”

With a long exhale, Severus puts the empty goblet next to hers. “I must continue my lesson plans, and I believe you have studying to do.”

“I meant—”

“I know what you meant.” His face softens. “It would be unwise to attempt to hide a relationship going forwards. The Headmaster has shown leniency once, I don’t want him to regret that decision.” He lifts his hand towards her, then lets it fall back to his side. His face is conflicted. “I don’t want you to regret your decision.”

Hermione’s chest tightens. “Severus…”

“No, please listen to me, Hermione.” This time he doesn’t stop himself from reaching for her, curling his hand around her jaw. “In the coming months, you will have a lot of decisions to make about your future, and I want you to make them for the right reasons without considering me.”

She looks at him, this cynical man whom she never imagined would come to mean so much to her as he has. “You’ll wait for me?”

The corners of his mouth curl up. “As long as it takes.”

Smiling, Hermione covers his hand with hers. She can wait for him too. He’s worth it.

Chapter Text

Hermione is obscenely early. She blames the anxious flutter through her chest and stomach, which also manifests in her knee bouncing. The heel of her boot makes a repeated low sound against the wood floor that reminds her of a heartbeat. She rests her elbows on the table and picks at her cuticles. She wonders what she looks like to the other people in the coffee shop, sitting alone with two steaming mugs and a plate of biscuits. Maybe they think she’s been stood up. Merlin, she hopes not. She looks at her watch—a 19th birthday present from her parents—which still shows it’s fifteen minutes until two. Hermione pushes her hair behind her ear and tugs on her neckline. Her jumper is too warm. She pushes the sleeves up, then tugs them back down. She should have worn her navy one instead. Oh. Rolling her eyes, she discreetly sends a cooling charm into her neckline. Much better. It’s embarrassing how often she forgets she’s a witch.

She checks her watch. Thirteen minutes until two. She huffs and looks out the window. The sunshine reflects in the puddles caused by the rainstorm earlier today, and a few leaves fall off a nearby elm. Her stomach is in knots. What if he’s not coming? Other than the owl she sent last week, she hasn’t spoken to or seen Severus in four months. Not since she left Hogwarts, and she couldn’t resist looking back at the castle on her way to Hogsmeade. He stood in the courtyard with the other professors—a tradition for seeing off the seventh year students—and when their eyes met he nodded curtly.

A reflection in the glass makes Hermione’s breath hitch. Severus’ eyes don’t leave hers as he weaves through the tables. She stands on wobbly knees as he reaches her.

“Severus,” she says, the name feeling unusual in her mouth after so many months. “You look good.” And she means it. The groove between his brows is less pronounced and his cheeks aren’t as sunken. The end of the war has clearly been good for him.

“So do you.” He clears his throat. “Shall we sit? Or is standing the new fashion?”

“Oh.” Hermione chuckles. “Yes. Sit, I mean. I ordered coffee, I hope that’s all right.”

“It is, thank you.”

Settling, her foot bumps against Severus’ underneath the narrow table. Hermione tugs her sleeves over her hands. She’s not sure how to act now that he’s here.

It’s Severus who speaks first. “I wanted to offer you congratulations; Minerva has been bragging about your N.E.W.T results for months. I wasn’t surprised in the slightest, you were always a swot.” He smirks, and his brow arches in a way that makes her cheeks flush.

Hermione smiles. “Thank you.” She practically lived and breathed revision after they broke the soul bond, and seeing her marks made the sleepless nights and near overdose on Invigoration Draughts worth it.

“What field of study did you choose?”

“Arithmancy. It was a toss-up between that and Charms. Literally; Harry made me toss a galleon to decide after two weeks of pros and cons lists.”

The brow arches higher. “You decided your future on a coin toss?”

Chuckling, she shakes her head. “Of course not. The moment it landed I knew what I wanted.”

There are more things she wants—things she can’t bring herself to say out loud yet. She takes a custard cream from the plate and nibbles on a corner. The silence stretches but isn’t uncomfortable.

“How have you been?” Hermione says, putting the half-eaten biscuit on the plate and glancing at his empty left sleeve. “How are things at Hogwarts?”

“Much like they always are,” Severus says before taking a sip of coffee. “Hogwarts remains a constant. Though I’m finding myself with more free time than I have previously, which has taken some time getting used to.”

“Maybe you could pick up a new hobby? Something low stress like… cloud watching.”

He snorts. “Cloud watching? I think Minerva would send me off to St Mungo’s if she caught me cloud watching.”

Smiling, Hermione leans forward and rests her chin in her hand. “I don’t know, I think she’d support my suggestion.”

He rests his arm on the table, hand close to her elbow. “I’m sure you can use that brilliant brain to come up with a better hobby.”

Memories of his touch on her skin make her cheeks flush. “I’ll do my—”

Severus’ body tenses. His hand clenches and his face twists in pain.

Hermione frowns. “Are you okay?”

“Give me a moment,” he presses out between clenched teeth. His eyes closes and his hair falls around his face as he lowers his head.

She puts her hand on his, putting her fingers between his until they’re fully clasped. They sit in silence until his body slowly relaxes. Wetting his lips, he looks at her.

“Does that happen a lot?” Hermione asks softly.

“From time to time, and more often now it’s getting colder.” Clearing his throat, he pulls his hand from hers. “I’m conducting research on a potion that works for nerve pain, but I’ve been unsuccessful so far.”

She curls her hand around her mug. “How are you adjusting otherwise? We haven’t really talked about…”

“I’m making progress.” Severus shifts in his seat. “There are a few different options for prosthetics I’ve been trialling, but none of them felt right.”

“In what way?”

He traces his lower lip with his finger. “It’s hard to explain, but it felt foreign? Much like using Polyjuice Potion and being in someone else’s skin.”

She nods. “It’s been some time, but I remember that feeling.”

Severus smirks. “Having a tail will do that.”

Hermione shudders. The month she spent in the Hospital Wing was the worst of her life. “Don’t remind me, I still have nightmares about that.”

“As do I; I was brewing potions around the clock for weeks.”

It’s strange for her to reconcile that the man sitting in front of her—a man she’s kissed and touched and spent so much time with she feels she knows him as she knows herself—is the same man who brusquely directed her to the myriad of potions needed to shed her feline features and made her cry in her fourth year by his comment on her teeth.

“I’m not sure I ever thanked you for that,” she says.

His face softens.

The barista comes to the table, face apologetic. “Excuse me, we’re closing in a few minutes.”

“Thank you,” Severus says.

Hermione’s stomach hurts as she puts on her coat and follows him outside the café. She’s not ready to say goodbye yet. Severus lifts his collar against the chilly autumn wind. It blows his hair around his face, and Hermione shoves her hands into her pockets to not push it back.

Severus looks uncertain. “Do you need to get back?”

“I don’t.” She smiles. “Walk with me?”

She leads him up the stairs at Bootham Bar, with the city walls extending out before them. It’s Hermione’s favourite part of the city, and she can’t count how many times she’s walked the length of it when needing to clear her mind. This particular part of the path is narrow enough that his arm brushes against her shoulder. They’ve walked for a few minutes before she speaks.

“I’ve done some research lately about soul bonds. The university has a surprising amount of literature about soul magic—most of it purely speculative, of course.”

Severus snorts. “Are you planning on doing another soul bond?”

Hermione chuckles and pushes her wind-swept hair from her eyes. “No, once was quite enough.” She steps around a puddle on the path. “I was looking for any mentions of breaking soul bonds.”

“Did you find anything?”

“No. According to the literature I read, breaking a soul bond shouldn’t be possible.”

“And yet, we did so,” Severus says. “Not all answers can be found in a book, Hermione. What made you want to look it up?”

“Curiosity, really. It’s been, what, six months since we did the potion? I’ve been expecting there to be some sort of lasting effect, but I haven’t noticed anything out of the ordinary.”

He looks contemplative. “Nor have I. Other than not dropping dead when the bond was broken.”

Hermione laughs. “That’s one side effect of the bond that I’m happy for.” She tugs on his arm, making him stop. “I’ve missed you.”

His face goes from surprise to disbelief to something she can’t interpret. “Hermione…” his tone is pleading.

Her eyes water. “I don’t want to hear any warnings about what others may think or that I don’t know what I’m saying. It’s not fair and honestly, it’s belittling.” She touches his face. His skin is chilled and there’s a hint of prickly stubble against her palm. “You deserve to be happy, Severus. If you don’t feel the same way just tell me, but don’t push me away because you’re scared.”

Severus’ lips part slightly. Hermione holds her breath. Then he moves his arm so he can grasp her hand instead.

“I won’t pretend I don’t have reservations about how people will react, but it’s only out of concern.” He leans into her touch. “I couldn’t stand to see you hurt, especially if it was because of me. You matter too much to me.”

Hermione’s chest lightens until she feels she would float away if not for his grasp on her hand. She slides her hand around the back of his shoulders and stretches up to rest her forehead against his. His arm goes around her waist to tug her closer. A sense of calm spreads through her chest and out through the rest of her body. Her eyes fall closed as she breathes in the moment. His lips brush against hers, once, twice, so soft she can barely feel it. Her grip on his shoulders tightens as she kisses him with more purpose. A low sound rumbles in his chest.

She pulls back reluctantly. “Do you mean it?”

“I do.” Severus’ eyes flicker over her face. “My feelings for you haven’t changed, Hermione. I’m not trying to push you away, but I want you to be prepared that it probably won’t be easy.”

Hermione smiles. “I never did care much for easy.”

His lips curl into a smile. “No, you certainly didn’t.”

Hand-in-hand, they continue walking. The street lights flicker to life as darkness falls over them. It’s cold and somewhat damp but the air smells like a log fire and his hand is warm and steady in hers. She’s not concerned about what people will say or think. They have been through worse.