Aletheia

In true Gryffindor fashion, first thing the next morning, Hermione sat resolutely at breakfast, chatting and acting like absolutely nothing had happened to her last night.

Luckily for her, she was not generally one to tell lies, so every time she got a zap—it had only happened twice since she had woken up—a jolt of self-righteous superiority had swept over her in time with the electric current.

Someone needs to get better at lies by omission, she thought with a grin to herself.

Somewhat sombering the thought: just as she’d feared, each zap—which felt more like being twicked by a rubber band than anything else—got slightly more intense, so she could see how before long it could become an issue for them both. She could hardly flinch in the middle of a conversation without it being noticed, and (the guilt she had been working hard to push aside due to its lack of helpfulness to the situation) she could only imagine the toll it could take on Snape in Voldemort’s presence when it got extremely bad.

To her surprise, she was broken out of her reverie by a note delivered by a first-year Slytherin who seemed both intimidated and standoffish in the face of a seventh-year Gryffindor.

“This is for you,” he said, thrusting the sealed parchment at her.

“Thank you,” she said, remembering her manners despite her surprise. There was only one person she could imagine using a student to send a message like this, and he had seemed very keen on avoiding her when they last spoke about ten hours ago.

Miss Granger,

I apologize for our meeting being cut short yesterday afternoon. I would like to meet again to further discuss the topic at hand. Please see me after breakfast to arrange a time.

S. Snape

“You had a meeting with Snape?” Ron asked, peering over her shoulder. “Why?”

“Just about my N.E.W.T.S.,” Hermione lied before she could think about it. A jolt went up both arms, like a nerve being prodded.

Well, he did mention my N.E.W.T.S. last night, she huffed petulantly to herself, sad to have lost the moral high ground already. She snuck a look at the one place she had refused to even glance so far this morning—the high table. Snape was sitting in stony-faced silence, refusing to eat, chat, or look anywhere but straight ahead, it appeared.

“Well, looks like he’s in a mood, so good luck with that,” Harry commiserated, patting her heartily on the back.

***

Twenty minutes later, Hermione was knocking on Snape’s office door, palms sweaty.

“Enter.”

Even through the door, his voice was loud and clear. Before she could second guess herself, she twisted the knob and pulled the door open, stepping inside the tiny, windowless room lined with jars of slimy things she would have been happy to examine at a time that her stomach wasn’t doing somersaults.

“Good morning, Professor Snape,” she said respectfully, keeping her eyes on his folded hands rested atop his desk.

“It has been, hasn’t it?”

Zap. Hermione scowled slightly.

“I very much enjoyed my breakfast.” Zap. “The eggs and toast were especially delicious today.” Zap.

“Professor, please, if I’m only here so you can punish me—” Hermione started, frustration growing so strong she felt tears beginning to sting her eyes.

“Actions have consequences, Miss Granger,” he said flatly, former cheerful pretense gone (to Hermione’s relief, since it had been quite unnerving to hear Snape so positive, even just to prove a point.)

“And sometimes you are the consequence?” Hermione asked rather boldly.

“And sometimes I pay them,” Snape replied icily. “Can you guess which situation is the current case, Miss Granger?”

“Both?” she answered hesitantly.

“Miss Granger, if I were the consequence for any foolish action that you took, you would be more sure of that answer,” he said, and Hermione gulped. “In any case, this is not what we are here to discuss. In short, I refuse to be solely responsible for finding the antidote to this poison when it could just as easily be present in a book as it could be figured out through trial and error. Therefore, I am expecting you to report to the dungeons every evening directly after dinner with whatever reading material you deem promising, and spend the hours before curfew trying to find an answer as I work on it as well.”

“But, Professor, my grades will—” Hermione started, panic flaring.

“—remain flawless, I am sure, since you tend to write several feet more than required for essays in my class, so this schedule will also teach you the art of brevity,” Snape replied dryly. “You do not get a say in this decision since it was your foolish behavior and hubris that got us into this predicament. You may remember that my directions in class yesterday were to brew a potion from your textbook, not just any potion you deemed appropriate.”

Hermione lowered her eyes. It was true—it had been hubris, and the pursuit of praise that he perpetually refused to give her, that had led her to brew the potion, despite it being against the rules.

“Well, Professor, I am looking forward to this arrangement,” Hermione finally said, savoring the zap that she knew went up his arm since it went up both of hers. True to the book’s word, the zaps were increasing ever so slightly in severity, so she really should not be wasting lies on such pettiness. However, if Snape was allowed to do it three times, she could do it once as well. “I will see you at eight o’clock tonight. Now, if you excuse me, I have a Transfiguration class to get to.”

Without another word, Hermione turned and left his office, proud that this time, she kept her head held high and footsteps slow and confident.

On the inside, though, she was anything but.