Hermione attributed this to the lack of her usual activities and neighbors, but in reality, sadly, it still didn't change.
In the morning, she woke up from a restless sleep—one she could only fall into after several attempts, nightmares, or sleeping pills. Then came a shower—it was convenient that the bathroom was almost always free; she was still the only senior Gryffindor student. After breakfast in the kitchen with the professors and the few volunteers who had come or stayed to help their beloved school, she worked until lunch, preparing the castle for the return of all the students.
After three o'clock, Hermione was left to her own devices. The library, of course—that's where she spent most of her free time. The first thing she did was restore the sections on magical creatures, curses, and potions. The first two were obvious choices, but it was unclear what impulse had led her to choose the last. Perhaps it was because she was still thinking about the man who had remained in the old Ministry building.
The man alone and doomed.
The man she had—foolishly, perhaps—doomed?
Bloody Snape.
Hermione hated him and respected him, cursed him and felt a burning need for explanations, wanted to see him again and also wanted never to know him. For all those attempts to talk to him, for all those minutes of humiliation at the closed door, Hermione had fully realized only one thing—she had to act powerlessly with him. No tricks. No lies. No attempts to pull something off.
In those few observations, in moments when he was probably unacceptably tired and slightly open—just a little, just a tiny crack—to the eyes of those watching, Hermione was convinced of one thing.
It seemed he was not a man of dirt.
How ironic.
Honor? Too grand a word. After all, he had served and killed for so many years. Of course not.
He was a Slytherin.
He was a spy.
He was scary.
But his unconcealed, defenseless gaze—the same one he did not restrain, half-lying in the hut, dying, crying—for some reason, stuck in her heavy head.
He was not a man of honor, of course.
But he was not a monster.
He was not dirty.
Let him try to present himself as such. Another riddle? A puzzle? A task? No. He is a man.
He is one of the strongest... if not the only one. Dumbledore is dead. Voldemort is too. Who could possibly stand up to him? Hermione understands the fears of the Ministry's pawns. But were they really so stupid that they would choose the path of malice with such a powerful wizard? Were they so sure that they had broken Snape? Wouldn't it be easier to bind a man with kindness?
"Hermione?" A voice sounded too quietly, almost inaudibly, painfully cautious behind her.
A small rag fell from her hands, and a second later, the smells of almonds, biscuits, roses, and pepper filled her nose.
"Ginny." Hermione grabbed her into a hug with all her might, clinging to her thin shoulders. "You finally came."
Almost imperceptibly shuddering, she hugged her friend back and let them both stand like that for a short while.
"Sorry." Hermione carefully took her hands away from her, hastily apologizing. "Sorry, I didn't mean to—"
"George insisted that I come to Hogwarts," Ginny interrupted. Her eye twitched, the veins on her arms bulged. "He said that…" She faltered. "Anyway, it was something about education and independence."
"George is right."
"I know." Ginny sighed. "That's why I'm here."
"That's a wonderful solution." Hermione tried to smile, but this whole conversation—this meeting of theirs, their first in so many weeks since the war—was saturated with pain. It was hard to smile.
"Why are you wiping the books with a rag?" Ginny asked, seeing a small piece of cloth on the floor.
"I like to touch them," Hermione answered sheepishly. "Yes, it takes longer, but—"
"No, no," Weasley interrupted. "I understand."
How awkward. How clumsily cool. As if they were strangers meeting for the first time, not again.
"Want me to help?"
Hermione, the corners of her lips twitching cautiously again, conjured a rag for Ginny as well.
And maybe it really was like the first time at that moment? Maybe those children had died in the war along with the others? Maybe these were bodies for new souls?
"I'll do these, and you wipe the other shelf."
Ginny nodded silently and began to slowly obey.
The war had broken this lioness. She had been mercilessly torn apart and hacked to pieces. Her long claws had been torn out, and her beautiful tail had been cut off.
"It suits you," Ginny said quietly, looking at her friend.
"What?"
"A braid," she clarified. "You rarely braided your hair before. It looks good on you."
"Thank you." Hermione breathed out. "You look great with your new haircut, too."
"Thank you," Ginny muttered, nervously combing her hair behind her ear.
In fact, it was a lie. It didn't suit Ginny at all. Hermione had always admired her luxurious, thick hair. Now it was cut into an overly short, uneven bob. And she thought that Ginny had done it herself.
Just as Hermione didn't suit her hastily braided hair at all. She simply had nowhere to put the hair that was in the way. Perhaps she should have cut it too. She certainly had nothing to be proud of.
"How… Mrs. Weasley?"
"Okay," Ginny said, too quickly.
Of course, it wasn't. Her son was dead. Her husband was dying. Her daughter had been abused.
A ringing sense of bitterness hung between Hermione and Ginny in the dusty library.
So little time had passed… so little. And here they were, standing in this very spot at this very, terribly unreal moment.
"Okay," Hermione sighed, more to herself.
She began to carefully clean the volume of rare potion ingredients.
---
That night, she went to bed late from a walk around the castle grounds, with Ginny by her side.
Her thoughts were occupied with the same man, yet again.
What did he eat? Was there anyone who thought about him besides her? How did he intend to live? Would he work? Did he still blame her for everything that had happened to him? Was it her fault?
And what did she care?
But Hermione could not sleep. She could not stop thinking about this man. Damn him.
She carefully applied the potion to her vile forearm, took a sleeping draught, and lay down.
Hermione had strange, unclear, confused dreams. Moments, fragments, episodes connected with the past.
Mum and Dad. Harry. Ron.
Ginny and Fred. George. Charlie. Professor Flitwick.
And, of course, the DADA and Potions professor. Severus Snape.
As he had once been.
The unwavering horror of the dungeons. The buried secret.
How terribly poetic and tragic it all was—he, too, had once been cursed.
Hurt. Hurt. Defiled and violated.
Alone.
All he had wanted was… humanity and friendship.
She had woken up again that morning thinking about him.
The sleeping pills had only lasted five hours.
She was so tired.
Ginny was still asleep, and it was dark.
Hermione stared at the ceiling.
Perhaps what she had dreaded most was the news that one day he, too—like everyone else they had failed to save, who had been lost so quickly, who had abandoned them—was gone.
Afraid that he, too, would… leave her?
Merlin almighty, it was getting scary.
Was Hermione obsessed with him?
Obsessed? Mad?
Why him?
Why not Mr. Weasley?
Why not someone else?
Guilt? Responsibility? Pity?
Fuck it.
Throwing the covers back, she rose from her bed, determined to discuss this with Headmistress McGonagall.
After a quick shower and her usual cotton suit, Hermione darted out into the hallway.
Six in the morning.
Nothing.
She would just have to wait a little while.
She knew Headmistress McGonagall got up at seven.
Just an hour.
An unclear force led Hermione in a direction once hidden from prying eyes.
She headed straight for the dungeons.
There was no one there now.
Step by step, step by step, it became colder and darker.
It seemed that these rooms did not even need restoration.
The Potions classroom was definitely not damaged—she heard how they talked about it.
With a wave of her wand, Hermione opened the old door and immediately found herself in the pool of her memories.
Everything was indeed exactly as she remembered the last time.
A large board. The professor's table. Desks. A door to the storeroom, and behind it—to a personal, hidden laboratory.
Hermione had always wanted to know what it looked like. How it was different. What was there.
Without thinking for a second, she rushed there.
Everything was too simple.
Inside was a huge table that took up most of the space. Two large shelves with ingredients. A sink. Magical ladles and cauldrons.
The laboratory was no different from their classroom, only smaller.
Nothing had been brewed here for a long time—dust everywhere.
Before Hermione could even come to her senses, her wand flew up, and all the surfaces began to shine again.
Her curiosity led her further—into the depths of the room.
She saw—there was a hidden door.
Hermione had heard that the Potions Master's quarters were somewhere in the bowels of the dungeons.
And she had also heard that the entrance to them was through the classroom.
Alohomora had not worked.
Neither had Portoberto.
She suspected that a password was needed.
"Aut Caesar, aut nihil."
Suddenly, the air in the lab became warm.
It became hot.
Hermione caught her breath because the door in front of her lit up.
A second.
Two.
The time that passed seemed like an eternity.
"Vim vi repellere licet."
A hoarse baritone sounded behind her, and Hermione shuddered.
The room opened.
Because its owner had returned.