There was a rule in life - the strong overcomes the weak. A common law. A commandment? No, it's probably just the way it is. It just happens that way—a vast difference in resources, opportunities, and superiority.
A diff-erence.
Sometimes strength is not measured in the usual ways, measures and frameworks. Some people just have it. Others don't. Or they lose it.
Or ran out.
- Mister Thomas, be careful, - a painfully familiar voice sounded behind him. One tiny sigh, a smile, a mask.
"Professor McGonagall."
"Hermione!" Minerva cried excitedly. I didn't know you were here already. "Arrived this morning," she said with an awkward smile. I heard you needed help. — I'm so glad you finally accepted my offer.
Yes.
She… finally accepted it. Foolishly, I suppose. Out of uncertainty, out of fear. How? And why? They had survived the war. What
now? Hermione would never be the girl she had once been. Her dreams crumbled like sandcastles washed away by the tide. Her aspirations sank into an abyss someone else had carved for her. Where to go?
What to dream of? What to keep trying for? There was nothing left but… Hogwarts is my home, she said. — Of course I'm glad to be back. McGonagall nodded understandingly and stepped forward. They would definitely talk again. Oh yes. Absolutely. Of course. They will definitely talk - once again and again about the same thing.
Two weeks ago
Shivering from the cold, Hermione took off her wet cardigan and dried herself with a spell. The thunder continued outside the window. A surprisingly cold end to summer in this strangest of years. "Hello, my dear," she greeted tenderly as Crookshanks came out of the room sleepily. "Tea is the only thing to drink in weather like this, right?"
For some unknown reason, moisture gathered in the corners of her tired eyes. Her lips began to tremble, her nose began to tingle. What was the matter? Why was the bitter taste so vivid in her mouth? Why did the pain in her chest grow with every heavy breath? Crookshanks meowed pitifully, coming closer to her mistress. He was the only one who was always there. The only one who understood her. "Everything is fine," Hermione said, sitting down on the sofa. It sounded pathetic, even her cat did not believe her words. It was just... nothing made sense. And Hermione couldn't understand... why? Perhaps it had the term "trauma." It was quite possible that it was "disorder." Or as they say now... "post-traumatic stress"? But where should she go? Muggle therapists would be happy to listen to her stories about the war in the wizarding world with an evil wizard. And they would be just as happy to send her to the nearest madhouse. A mind healer at St. Mungo's? Their recipe for mental health was Calming Balm. So what should she do? Cope, as usual, alone? Be patient? Where to go? How to get up in the morning? What to do if the only meaning was lost? It had been clear before - they had a goal. There was a war around, they had to destroy the Horcruxes and kill Voldemort. In her first year, she had to be the best to justify her place. In her second year, she made friends. Harry and Ron. And immediately - almost instantly - they set out on the path of struggle. All these years, all these days, all these months, she knew perfectly well what she had to do. But now. Where should she go next? For what? For what? So many lives had been taken by this most terrible event. She would never hug her mother and father again, never see Hagrid, never laugh with Fred, Luna, and never look Harry and Ron in the eyes again the same way . None of them. The wonderful world, the victory, the peace...none of it came after Riddle's death.Hermione had almost – just barely – found a thread, a small cable, the tiniest clue.
Snape.
The one who had been the one thanks to whom they had been able to continue fighting all this time. The one who had turned out to be… different.
In all this abundance of lost lives, his lifeseemed incredibly valuable to her. Personal. Dear. It was unbearable to see him die. She didn't know, didn't guess, didn't even assume at that moment that he was actually a warrior of the Order. That he wasn't a vile traitor, not Voldemort's henchman… He was a real trump card and a secret plan. Hermione tried to save him, not knowing any of this. An unknown feeling and premonitions led her. It always seemed to her that his figure was far from simple. There was something about him… frighteningly alluring. She still wanted to unravel him. And now… Hermione came close enough. Unacceptably.
He didn't allow her.
Two months ago, having driven her away with the help of harsh Legilimency, Snape destroyed almost an entire floor of St. Mungo's. The magical emission was equal in strength to the explosion of a bomb, and it was a miracle that no one died on that fateful day.
"He's dangerous!"
"He needs to be locked up!"
"How do we even know he's not going to gather his own army and follow in his master's footsteps?!"
"Stop it!"
Hermione couldn't quite believe that they still considered him a traitor to the Order. They considered him vile, dirty, mean, and a disgusting liar. This discovery outraged Hermione so much.
"How could they?!" were her first thoughts. But only after some time did she realize that they didn't know his hidden history. They didn't see those bitter tears of the dying man's last will in the cabin. Harry didn't know either. He didn't even guess. When they plunged into the Pensieve, Hermione immediately realized that these were too personal memories. The right thing to do would have been to leave. The right thing to leave only Harry there… But Hermione didn't do it, just like Ron didn't.
"He'll be tried," she was told.
"He faces life in prison."
"But he's a hero."
Kingsley remained silent at these quiet words, spoken almost in unison by Harry and Hermione. All this time, Snape had been kept alive, only to be sent to Azkaban. He faced either death by poison or imprisonment. Unfair. Horrible. Painful. Bitter. He had done so much for them, but… It didn't change his crimes. It didn't change the victims on his bloody hands, it didn't change the number of tortures, abuses, sins. War was a dirty place. And being a spy… Hermione couldn't imagine it. Her wand trembled on the day of the final battle. She tried so hard to use their standard spells, to defend herself, to stun and immobilize. But in the moment of true danger, in the moment of life and death, everything happens by itself. She had killed several. Huntsmen, Death Eaters, maybe even werewolves. She didn't count. The terrible words were out of her mouth as the red beam shot out in a thin thread from the shaft opposite. And then it was too late. Too many screaming wizards, too many whistling spells and explosions. There was no time for stunning spells. Every second counted. And it was either her or him. Hermione was choosing the former at that moment. But was it worth it? That was the question. "Come to bed, darling," Hermione whispered softly to a yawning Darkling. But she never slept that night.
***
Hogwarts had become grey, impersonal, cold. A ruined castle that had once sheltered special children. Right now, those same children were rebuilding it stone by stone. The mighty walls were rising again, step by step. The decision to return for a repeat course was… difficult for Hermione. It seemed, what other options were there? The slightest delay and the slightest chance.
Just a little longer. Just a little bit more.
She could be… a child – ghostly, with pretense – for another whole school year. As if the world outside did not exist again for these months of study. As if everything around was not true. And as if everything was… normal.
But at the same time, Hermione knew it was all in vain. She wasn't sure she had the strength. The first time Professor McGonagall had come to her small flat in London, Hermione had told her "no." Harry and Ron hadn't returned to Hogwarts. It was unlikely they would ever come back here again. And she? What should she do? They had been too far apart since the war. Harry had so much to do… Ron's brother had died, and his father would soon be gone. She would have supported them, perhaps. But she couldn't find the strength. This time, they were dealing with their grief alone.
"Are the Malfoys being acquitted?" Hermione asked one day as they left the Ministry.
"Mrs. Malfoy lied to Voldemort. Draco has proven with his memories that he was under the Imperius Curse. Lucius is in custody," Kingsley said dryly.
"I see."
"Hermione…" he began. "Go home. There's nothing to do here anyway.
"I'm not leaving until my application for a proper lawyer for Professor Snape is considered."
"You know it won't be considered.
" "I know," she replied. " That's why I'm not leaving."
Some might say that Hermione was crazy about this. They probably already said that about her, but she couldn't just sit back and watch the hell out of the hero.
"I'm doing what I can," Harry said. But Harry was exhausted, powerless. Busy.
He was busy with so many other people's affairs that, despite everything, he had no time for Snape.
"Why are you doing this?" Ron asked her when she was late at the hospital yet again. And Hermione didn't answer. There were no words. She couldn't even fully explain to herself - why was she fighting so hard for Snape's freedom? Because he had no one else? So what? What did she care? Hadn't Snape humiliated her all these years? Did the mere fact that he was with them make him a saint? Of course not. He was not a saint. And he still killed. And he still served. She had no idea why he had joined Riddle in his youth. What had driven a young man to join the Death Eaters? Death? Despair? Humiliation? So was Hermione really… curious? Was he the only one who somehow lit a light in her that had gone out? A vague riddle, a complex equation. She knew perfectly well that she would never be able to fully unravel it. Hyperfixation? Maybe that? Or maybe a distraction – briefly, just for a little while – from those terrible scenes that surfaced at night? From the screams in her ears, from the tinkling of broken glass. From the looks – forever extinguished – of her mother and father. From the foul smell of Greyback standing near her wet face. Maybe it was his hand? The one that had appeared so suddenly in that dungeon at the Manor? Maybe because he was the only one who had helped her?
"Get out of here," a strange voice growled furiously. It was familiar, as if... But not now. A wand was raised in an instant. She shuddered. But there was no beam. There was only light. A stranger in a long robe opened Hermione's cage. And the stranger gave her the lost vine. At that moment, her brain did not fixate on the face of the savior. But at the end of the war... When all the puzzles suddenly fell into place... Hermione understood. She felt.
Snape had helped her.
And how was it going now? Was she just reciprocating his feelings? Was she paying off her life debt?
Or did she want to ask him?
Why had he helped her in that dungeon? Her life was not nearly as valuable in this war.
He had taken a risk.
Had he... taken pity on her?
Was he... merciful?
The pain in her left arm served as a mockery, and Hermione instantly closed her eyes. Her own scream rang out louder than the bell in the old corridor.
"Holy Merlin, my girl!"
Madam Pomfrey.
"Apply this ointment three times a day."
It didn't work. They didn't work. The ointments didn't work, the potions didn't ease the pain. In the first few days, Hermione had assumed it was normal. That it was just pus, or magic. It would settle in time; it would heal. She hadn't thought about the small gash on her forearm then. But the war was over, and the months had passed. The pain hadn't subsided, it had grown. It bled and swelled, pus oozed and oozed from the crooked letters written on her skin.
Mudblood.
Of course.
Bellatrix's dagger had been cursed.
"I'm afraid there's nothing we can do about it, Miss Granger. I'm sorry, " the sullen healer at St Mungo's had told her. Dry, quick, and to the point. He didn't care . Their ward was still bursting with the seriously wounded and dying.
"It's nothing ," she had answered that time. She would just have to treat the unhealing wound on her arm every day for the rest of her miserable life. Every day she would have to see the rotting letters reminding her of her blood. As dirty as… she was. It was nothing, really.
The main thing was that she was still alive.
"Miss Granger?" Professor Sprout addressed her carefully. "Hermione, are you okay?" "Yes, yes," she responded quietly, emerging from the pool of personal memories. "I was just… thinking." Smiling understandingly, the professor walked on. The click of her small heels echoed off the walls of the destroyed corridor.
Madam Sprout left a few seconds later. And the sound of her footsteps also died down. And Hermione was left in the middle. Alone with herself and her pain. She had survived. She stood on the spot where the battles had taken place a few months ago. Where the floor was covered with the blood of the strongest wizards.
And right at that moment, her dirty blood dripped with pus onto the floor, defiling the clean space. Was her decision about life right? Was his decision in that dungeon right?