Chapter Two - A Woman in Wartime
The end of Hermione Granger’s fifth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry saw her lying in a hospital bed after following Harry Potter into trouble yet again, and she idly noted that it was becoming a pattern she didn’t seem to have much choice in establishing.
Of course, unlike the last time she had received such elongated care from Madam Pomfrey, the witch could actually move around - scratching her nose and rubbing her feet together like a cricket whenever she so pleased. It made a nice change from the months she had spent petrified and unable to do so much as sneeze.
And, unlike last time, Professor Snape had taken it upon himself to be her primary physician for all intents and purposes. She supposed it made sense in theory - he was, after all, a highly acclaimed Potions Master as well as familiar with the Dark Arts.
No one else could have stopped the curse’s effects - an ugly, dark entity Dolohov had invented himself especially for use on muggle-born witches. From the little any adult would tell her, she had gathered that it would have acted like a parasite - slowly eating her magic (and uterus, in a fucked up and sexist twist of events) from the inside out - without Professor Snape’s timely intervention. It had been sheer luck that the Silencio she’d cast mere seconds before had held off the process long enough to get medical attention.
Infertility was the main cause of concern to those around her, and maybe if she had let herself dwell on it, she would have been more upset at the thought as well. But she could only be relieved and thankful that her magic was still intact - albeit in a weakened state.
“Miss Granger,” Professor Snape had drawled, his black, billowing cloak as he stalked toward her bedside the first thing Hermione saw when she woke in the Hospital Wing after the skirmish in the Department of Mysteries.
“You’ve finally decided to join us in the land of the living.”
His mouth was pressed in a straight line, hooked nose prominent as he stared down at her with unfathomable, dark eyes.
He was upset, that much was clear, although Hermione couldn’t pinpoint how she knew exactly. To say the man was hard to read was an understatement. Years spent cowering under his stern gaze and studying under his harsh tutelage meant she was in tune with his form in a way she couldn’t explain. She supposed she was just as in tune with all her professors - although none she had paid attention to and wanted to figure out quite as much as Professor Snape. His refusal to grant her his approval made her strive for it all the more.
She groaned in response, still in that half-asleep world of magically-imbued anaesthesia she’d been slowly coming out of for the past hour.
“Don’t be mean,” She pouted, unable to control the words leaving her mouth, “It hurts.”
He looked at her sharply, suddenly on even more high alert as he inspected the bandages wrapped around her midriff, “Where does it hurt? What does it feel like?”
“It feels like I’ve been cursed by a Death Eater, funnily enough,” Hermione snarked, wincing as she realised she had said the words aloud.
She looked up at the formidable professor warily, waiting for his inevitable admonishment. His left eye twitched - with annoyance at her impertinence, she was sure.
“How unusual.” His comment dripped with sarcasm.
“Mean,” She reminded him in a warning tone. It seemed whatever potions she had been given were also acting like a more subtle version of Veritaserum - instead of urging her to tell the truth, she instead felt as if she had no chance to second-guess her words before they spilled past her lips.
His brow furrowed in concern, and she was taken aback by the sudden thought that it looked out of place on such a refined forehead. She giggled aloud at the odd turn her thoughts had taken. His brow furrowed further in response, and she grinned up at him.
“It seems you’ve finally gone mad,” The Head of Slytherin’s tone was unimpressed, “Pity.”
“Is it?” Hermione mused, feeling the corners of her mouth twitch upwards involuntarily even as she recovered from her temporary bout of delirium.
Her professor didn’t grace her with a reply, only humming in a noncommittal fashion in response to her antics.
Such a serious man, the witch thought to herself - and then, Would it kill him to smile?
“Indeed it would, Miss Granger. Thank you for the concern.”
Oh, shit. Did I say that out loud? No, I really don’t think I did. Surely not. I must be more out of sorts than I realised. Damn.
“If you’re done muttering to yourself, you might consider letting me examine you properly. I have all day, of course. Take your time.” His tone made it clear she should do the exact opposite.
She huffed childishly, raising her arms in the air like a child wanting to be picked up.
“Go ahead, Doc.”
She could swear she almost caught a look of amused surprise on his usually passive face but it was gone almost as soon as it arrived and she decided she must have imagined it.
The exam went smoothly, Professor Snape making it a point to touch her as little as necessary, critiquing her reactions and symptoms with a clinical efficiency that she found strangely comforting in its coldness.
“Well, Miss Granger. You are, as the muggles say, ‘out of the woods’. Congratulations. Do try not to die and reverse all my painstaking efforts at keeping you alive.” He drawled, his biting sarcasm as unrelenting as ever. She choked down a laugh at the ridiculous situation she’d found herself in.
That evening she was finally released from the Hospital Wing with stern instructions to continue administering healing potions twice a day for the next three weeks and report back if there were any complications.
Returning home after being in a medically-induced coma for a week and not being able to even mention it to her parents had been a mind-fuck, to put it bluntly. After the horrors of her second year and the (rightfully) negative way the Grangers’ had reacted to their only daughter being in grave danger, she’d taken it upon herself to use a customised version of the Befuddlement Charm to make sure all letters from the school were redirected to The Burrow. It wouldn’t occur to the well-meaning Weasleys’ to get her muggle parents involved in anything short of her actual death.
It was for the best. She loved her folks and was proud of her muggle-born status, but having them involved in her magical life was complicated at best. Still, they weren’t idiots. Hermione hadn’t popped out of the womb an academic (although it was a very close thing, to be sure). They knew something strange was afoot, and Hermione could tell it was only a matter of time before the tension boiled over. She wouldn’t be able to keep them in the dark forever, but she also had no way of protecting them from what was coming.
What was a teenage witch to do when the magical equivalent of Hitler was on the brink of destroying both the worlds she’d balanced so precariously for the past five years?
The next three weeks was spent dwelling on this question. A rebel with a cause, her parents always said with equal measure pride and exasperation. And it was true.
Ever since she was in kindergarten, she had always made it a point to stand up for the little guy. Her heart bled for the suffering of others long before she could put words to the feeling. She’d fancied herself a bit of an activist for a time - S.P.E.W. was not the first righteous cause she had seen fit to champion hardheadedly. She would fight for the side of light as she had always done, there was no doubt about that. Hermione was never one to shy away from a fight.
She couldn’t save everyone. If Sirius’ death in the Department of Mysteries and Cedric’s death in the graveyard the year before had taught her anything, it was that simple, devastating truth. She couldn’t save everyone.
So, who could she save?
Mum. Dad. Granny. Auntie Claire. That lovely old couple down the street who babysat me when I was little - the Johnsons. My old music teacher Miss Holly who taught me how to play ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy’ on the guitar in primary school.
Okay, she needed to narrow down that list.
Miss Holly had moved abroad years ago - Hermione couldn’t remember where and surely the Death Eaters had bigger fish to fry than hunting down an underpaid, crystal-obsessed music teacher she hadn’t seen in years.
The Johnsons could be a distant enough connection that the Death Eaters would never find them. After all, she’d never mentioned their existence to anyone in the magical community.
Auntie Claire was residing in France somewhere - she had no knowledge of any Death Eater activity in that part of Europe.
Granny… well, Granny was on death’s door as it was. A frail ninety-eight year old woman was hardly going to be a target of Voldemort’s. Hermione wouldn’t be surprised if the old girl carked it from natural causes long before the real war even begun.
Merlin, that was bleak.
So, that left only her parents. A much more manageable list. She would ask The Order to hide them of course - but that wouldn’t be enough on its own. She would need to be their secret-keeper because there was no one else she trusted that wasn’t already in the thick of the fight alongside her. Her mind was the only one that could hold their location.
And that meant her mental shields needed to be impenetrable because as Harry Potter’s best friend she would be more than a target. She would be as hunted as Harry and Ron, if not more so. Hermione was not naive to the disadvantage of being a woman in wartime.
She couldn’t bear to follow her thoughts further down that particular path, however, so she refocused her energy again on the matter of Mr. and Mrs. Grangers.
She would be turning seventeen in a matter of weeks thanks to the ‘timey-wimey’ rules of the time-turner she had utilised during third year. The Trace would no longer be an issue and she could employ any number of defences she saw fit. But she couldn’t do it alone.
The idea took root in a slow and reluctant way, like pulling teeth. There was only one person who could give her the knowledge and tools she sought - one formidable, morally grey man who she wasn’t even sure had a heart.
It was impossible. He would never help her - not for all the gold in Gringotts. Not for all the valuable potions ingredients in the world.
Except… maybe he would? There was really only one way to find out.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she’d already reached for a notepad and ballpoint pen. The young witch chewed her lip nervously. This was going to end in disaster, but she had to try.
Professor Snape,
I am writing to ask if you would consider giving me extra credit work next year. I think it would be a valuable use of my ‘know-it-all’ mindas I want to learn as much magic as I can to help people as a Healer in the future.
Please reply at your earliest convenience.
Kind regards,
Hermione Jean Granger
There. She underlined the hidden message she wanted to convey with a muggle invisible ink that would only show up under a black light. She had her suspicions that her Potions Professor was a half-blood, and she hoped his spy instincts and sharp mind would kick in as needed. Still, she couldn’t help but add a small addendum, underlining the final word with a visible flourish that could be mistaken for an innocent calligraphy choice if anyone other than Professor Snape were to read the letter.
P.S. The owl’s name is Nora - meaning light.
She looked at her owl then - a small, tawny creature with lighter colouring around the joints of her wings and legs as well as her eyes.
“Go on,” She coaxed gently, petting its head with care, “Take this to Professor Snape. Hopefully it’s not too long of a journey for you.” She apologised.
The owl hooted happily, glad for a chance to stretch its wings and escape into the feeble sunshine that had been teasing England for days. Hermione watched the bird flying away until it was just a speck in the distance and sighed. There was nothing to do but wait and see if all her best laid plans would be finished before they had even begun.
She woke up in a cold sweat some time later, the sun having gone to sleep long ago. Realising a tapping sound on her window had risen her, she crossed her small, attic bedroom to open it quickly.
“Nora,” She breathed in relief, “Good girl.”
A treat for the owl was in order, and Nora seemed to agree very much with that idea. Laughing at the bird’s enthusiasm while tackling her biscuit, Hermione opened the new letter with elegant, spiky script that had been attached to Nora’s leg.
Miss Granger,
Yes, of course I will cater to your every childish whim, it’s not like I have anything better to do. Your insufferable nosiness and innate ability to keep being a thorn in my side is not a secret joy of mine, I assure you.
Do not contact me again.
Regards,
Potions Master
S. Snape