Chapter 2
She ran, ran, and ran and felt the burn in her calves and lungs. Until her throat burned and the back of her neck felt slick. She came to a stop in some upper corridor. The air here was musty and still. No one had walked these corridors in a while. The setting sun cast golden light through the diamond paned windows.
The corridors she had run through had not been empty. They had all passed her in a blur, students had been milling about. They were encouraged to mingle now. To reduce the inter-house hatred. That was the idea anyway, they’d still kept the damn houses. Too much tradition there. She knew by morning she’d be the subject of the gossip mill. Not much happened at Hogwarts that wasn’t the subject of speculation. The golden princess of Gryffindor, running through the halls, it was ripe for speculation. The next few days would be full of hushed conversations as she walked, glances, and never-ending questions from Harry and Ron. She groaned. It was another turn of the knife. Another embarrassment.
Her breath was ragged as she hunched over, leaning against the wall. She could feel the moisture on her forehead. It was incomprehensible. It was a trick, a cruel trick. Her hands were shaky as she pushed her hair out of her face. Why? Why would he do this to her? That was the question. She tried to be rational. She was Hermione Granger, the rational one. There were roiling emotions in her but that wasn’t important. She could deal with those later, some other time. That was for a Hermione not currently catching her breath in an upper hall. She pushed everything down.
She held no romanticised version of Snape in her mind. Not anymore. He had returned from a war to a class full of students, scarred in one way or another, and he had been the callous bastard he’d always been. He never did anything without purpose though, did he? Harry had tried to excuse the Snape from before the war. That he had been a man undercover for most of it. Now though, what was he? What reason did he have now? He’d largely ignored her to begin with. It had been the same acerbic comments directed towards her. Part of her found some meagre comfort in it, she’d returned to normalcy. The other part of her had felt his comments like alcohol on a wound. The war had left her open and raw. She thought that maybe he had just been a bastard and would remain a bastard
This though, in his classroom. It had felt different. Pointed. There was something sharp behind what he’d done. It had pierced her between the ribs, the cruelty so personal. None of his Slytherins around to enjoy him torturing the princess of Gryffindor tower, it was all for him. It felt like some sick game for a sick man.
She felt rage rise to the surface. Quick tears fell from her eyes, she was angry and it was inexplicable. He was playing with her. After everything they had been through and now he sought to make her feel small. The worst part of it though was he was right. She was angry with him. Angry with him for being this surly bastard after everything. For using love in the war as his explanation but allowing it to drive him to act with hatred. All of her anger felt like a hot, molten ball at the base of her throat. She wanted to scream but the pleasant burn from running was lodged in her throat. She turned and punched the wall with her right fist. Pain lanced through her knuckles and up her wrist as her fist met immovable stone. She leant her forehead against the cool stone and let out one long breath.
Her right hand shook as she looked at it, she could tell she’d done some damage. The pain was sharp but no longer as delicious as that first burst that released everything. She cast several charms to heal herself, it was not as clean as she would’ve liked. Her left hand was not her wand hand but it was better than going to Pomfrey. She also took a small delight from the imperfection of it. A reminder to her of what happens when emotions take control. She let the rage leave her, she felt shame more than anything now. She would have to explain running through the halls of Hogwarts. She would have to look at Snape again. She would have to carry on as though everything were normal. She hated it but it was the way of things. Everyone else seemed perfectly capable of it. She was failing. She squared her shoulders, and brushed away the few remaining tears. She was Hermione Granger and she could do this, she just needed to walk back to her common room. She could ignore the questions, she had had worse and soon the rumour mill would move onto something else. She could go back to trying to be normal. Everything would be fine. Fine.
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She crawled through the portrait hole, the common room was noisy. Students shouting and laughing, the background hum of conversation washing over her. She noticed groups casting her looks. The Hogwarts rumour mill was faster than she thought.
She just wanted to go to bed, curl up, and wake up a week from now when no one cared. She moved toward her dormitory. Suddenly she felt an iron grip on her upper arm.
“Hermione, what happened?” It was Ron. Tall, sturdy Ron. He looked angry. His voice had been whispered and firm.
She sighed “nothing Ron, really it was nothing”
“Running from the dungeons after a detention with Snape, is nothing?” his voice was still firm, he was not going to let this go.
“I was upset.”
“Why, Hermione? '' His eyes were flicking over her face, his tone lessened and his eyes softened. He looked concerned and she hated it, shame came roiling back up in her. “Please, tell me”
She’d had enough “It was nothing Ron really” she held his gaze then. His grip on her arm loosened. She could see in his eyes, hurt. Hurt that she wouldn’t tell him, didn’t trust him. It made her feel worse. She couldn’t explain it though. She couldn’t tell him. She turned from him and walked to her bed. She just wanted to be below the duvet in a warm, dark world that was just her.
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The walk down to the Great Hall was staid, Ron was still angry with her. Harry had resumed his role as intermediary. Trying to negotiate between one friend's anger and the other's stubbornness. Hermione almost wanted to laugh. It was like the good old days.
After the war, after the kiss, she and Ron had shared awkward glances and frigid touches. Then there had been a moment on the stairs, she’d come round a corner and bumped into him. The look between them practically decided it. There was nothing there between them but friendship, no desire held there and she knew. Since then there had never been a discussion, it was like everything had returned to normalcy. Harry had awkwardly tried to discuss it with both of them, but they’d kept mum on the subject. Neither willing to share their feelings on the matter. Now though, in this moment, Hermione wanted anything back. Even awkward looks. She hated when they didn’t speak, it gnawed at her. She normally caved to it. Gave in to the social pressure, realising that Ron and Harry were better at emotions than her. She’d do what they suggested, her knowledge of emotions was somewhat limited. She felt she needed him, even his stupid chatter about quidditch as she walked into the Great Hall and saw Snape there.
Instead she walked in, in total silence. And it felt like the hall was a vacuum sucking the air from her lungs. He was there, sat at the high table, conversing with McGonagall. She wanted to laugh, she felt hysteria rising up in her. Of course he would be normal, what had she expected? For him to be waiting for her, to be looking out for her. She was nothing to him.