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A Matter of Honor
Book 2: Honor Bound Chapter 6: Year Two at Mywoods "So basically you spent the last two weeks of your three-week summer break holed up in a dungeon?" Greg teased. Having visited her parents before going to Hogwarts ("It did not go well" was the only description she would give), Hermione had agreed to extend her visit at Minerva's request--and not in small part because she and Professor Snape had fallen into old working patterns again. Hermione rolled her eyes. "Yes, Greg, and we got excellent work done. I think I've solved that bit with the Hippogriff hoof now." She saw him smile, expecting her to launch into yet another description of her work, and said instead, "And besides, I could think of worse things to do than work for two weeks with Severus Snape on a promising project." Greg lifted an eyebrow, watching her as she took a bite out of her sandwich. "Oh, indeed," he said, knowingly.
Having taken the remaining required sections over the summer--Astronomy and Care of Magical Creatures (luckily, the requirements allowed students to skip one subject completely, and she hadn't had to take Divination)--Hermione was facing a school year filled with classes from her major. She had taken an Advanced Charms course as an elective, as well as the second-year classes in Potions, Arithmancy, and Herbology. She then had an Advanced Seminar on the history of Arithmancy, as well as one on Herbal Potions. The spring term would be more of the same, except for the Charms. In early October, she received word that her application for grant money from the Ministry for her work on the Cruciatus Curse had been approved. Two weeks later, Ars Alchemica had written to say that they would like to see a new draft of her article, reflecting her more recent work on the subject. Apparently the grant had worked in her favor there, as well. Since her visit to Hogwarts, she had written to Snape more frequently. While he rarely wrote to her of anything other than work, the letters felt more open, somehow, and Hermione found herself including bits from her classes and asking him about the others at Hogwarts, or how his classes were going. He assured her that nothing had changed, and that the in-class explosion tally was already up to nineteen. Neither of them wrote anything about Voldemort. Hermione had told Greg about falling apart in Snape's office. She had thought that he would tell her that she was mad, but he had said, "It makes sense, Hermione. This is the man you credit with near omniscience, after all. He makes you feel safe. And he couldn't do anything about this. The thought of him not being safe may be worse to you than knowing Harry and Ron are in danger. It's not the way things are supposed to be. And at the same time you're realizing he's vulnerable, just the same as you are, he's acting like nothing's happened. You felt shut out…you felt that you needed him to understand. You probably didn't realize how much until you saw him." He was right. Just as she had needed Snape to see that she was talented, that her ideas were good, she had needed him to understand her pain. Because from what little she knew about how much he suffered, she expected him to have the answers to that, too. "Omniscience indeed," she said to Crookshanks. "The man's brilliant, but he's only human." Crookshanks meowed in agreement, and she realized that the thought wasn't so scary after all.
"Besides, I think you like him," Greg said, as they continued their conversation about Snape one day in November. He had sent Hermione his suggestions on her article revision, and she had told Greg that she was a little irked that it meant so much to her that he liked her work. She shot him a look. "I do not," she insisted, but had to look away as she said it. He smiled broadly. "I've finally sussed it out, haven't I…you have a thing for Snape!" She closed her eyes and wrinkled her nose, taking in a deep breath. She let it out and looked at him, her face still scrunched up. "I might…" she admitted. Greg started laughing. "Gods, why didn't I see it before? This explains a lot." Hermione shook her head. "Greg, please don't make a big deal out of this. It's not…it's not like I want to marry the man--and I'm sure he doesn't think anything of the sort about me. I just…think he's interesting." "And attractive," said Greg, matter-of-factly. "You want to snog the teacher. Admit it." Hermione looked away, refusing to answer.
In late November, eleven months after the London raid, Voldemort struck again. This time, he bypassed London--where the Ministry had been focusing their attentions, Greg noted grimly--and hit smaller targets around the country: Hogwarts, and the Auror training facilities in Dublin and Glasgow. Hogwarts seemed to have been merely an afterthought. There was no damage to the school itself, though Hogsmeade had been hard hit. The main purpose of this round had been to knock out the Auror support system, leaving London isolated. In the wake of the attacks, Voldemort's supporters had begun to terrorize those who did not support the Dark Lord, focusing, for the moment, on major cities. Harry and Ron were safe, at least for the moment, and Hermione had not recognized any of the names on the lists of the dead, missing, and wounded. She had not, however, heard from anyone at Hogwarts, so when a large barn owl arrived at Greg and Bill's window, she opened it before they even realized the bird was there. She ripped open the note as Bill fetched the bird some water. Greg asked, "What is it?" fearing the worst from the intent look on her face. As she skimmed the page, her jaw clenched, and then relaxed. She closed her eyes for a moment and sighed. "It's from Remus. He's writing to say that everyone is safe at Hogwarts. Nobody was hurt." "That's a relief," said Greg. Bill nodded. "I'm just worried that they're going to get it into their head to hit Mywoods one of these days." Hermione shook her head. "I don't think so. I don't think they'll want to spread themselves that wide--not right now, at least. They hit Hogwarts because Dumbledore is there." "And they hit Glasgow again because Harry is there?" Greg asked gently. Hermione nodded.
The next morning, Hermione woke to the sound of owl wings. She was instantly alert, and at the sight of Mordred outside her window, a bolt of relief shot through her stomach. Remus had told her that everybody was safe, but she knew that Snape wouldn't necessarily let anybody know everything that had happened to him--if he had been in contact with the Death Eaters that night. She opened the window and the bird came to rest on the edge of her desk. She took the envelope from his leg and he gave her a look before lifting off again. She was too intent on the note to scold him for his bad manners.
From anybody else, the letter would have seemed cold. Any other reader would have wondered why Snape bothered to write at all. But Hermione smiled, and read the letter again before putting it safely into her desk drawer with the others.
"Back so soon, my pet?" Snape said with a smirk as Mordred sailed into the classroom and came to rest on his shoulder. "I'm sure Miss Granger will have something to say about that." The owl hooted. "Off with you then, I've work to do." Mordred nipped at his master's ear before floating into the office, headed for the hidden corridor to Snape's private chambers. The owl chose to stay there instead of in the owlery. It was one of the many things Snape liked about his feathered familiar. He had not been called before these latest attacks, and that left him more anxious than he had been though all the months of waiting. There was a good chance that Voldemort no longer trusted him. That could mean that he was no longer useful…. Faced with the knowledge that his days might finally be numbered, he had been surprised to find that one of his first thoughts--once he was safely back in his dungeons the night of the attack and had a chance to think--was how glad he was that Mywoods had not been targeted. His second thought had been that he should write to her, to let her know that he was all right. He had known that she…liked him (he still hesitated on the word), that she enjoyed working with him and wanted to continue their work in the future. That she respected his opinion, valued his guidance. What he had not known, until she was there, screaming at him in his office, sobbing out her fears in his classroom--what he had not known until he had held her to him, whispering the words of comfort he had heard other professors use, having none of his own--was how passionate she was. Not about her work, not this time. The sheer depth of her emotion floored him. And part of it, he had realized, was for him. He had dealt with her automatically (he couldn't credit himself with having the instinct), trying to speak calmly at first, to keep her from leaving--to keep her from hating him. Supporting her as she collapsed, though he feared she must feel the awkwardness in the movement, the inclination to draw back to a safe distance. Saying the words he thought she would want to hear, though he could not believe them himself. He couldn't remember how they'd gotten back to his office. He was glad she had stayed that afternoon. He was also glad that she had changed the subject so readily, and that, over the remainder of her stay, they had gone back to work. That was familiar; that was a connection he understood. As for the rest… The realization that there was something else--something he couldn't articulate, didn't want to examine too closely--had shocked him. He shoved it aside. There was no room for anything else. Not now.
People prepared for Christmas cautiously. Decorations were sparse, and no one felt like shopping for gifts or singing carols. Bill, however, was playing David Bowie's "Peace on Earth" duet with Bing Crosby repeatedly, as if holding on to it for dear life. "At least he has the sense to use headphones, most of the time," said Greg, trying to make light of things. It was as though the wizarding community was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Hermione knew that Remus thought the continuing terrorism against "mudbloods" was a sign that Voldemort was not going to hibernate for another year this time. And Minerva's invitation to spend Christmas at Hogwarts did nothing to alleviate her fears. She suspected that both of her professors knew more than they were telling. On top of everything else, Snape had been oddly quiet. Remus hadn't said much about the attempted raid at Hogwarts--nobody had--but from the way he spoke about Snape, it was clear that there was reason for her to be worried. On Christmas Eve, Voldemort struck again. On Christmas Day, he was defeated. The strike against the Ministry headquarters in London began just before midnight. As the battle waged throughout the night, a smaller force had attempted to infiltrate the Auror training facility in Glasgow. Voldemort had been with the latter group; the attack in London had been a diversion. Voldemort wanted Harry dead, once and for all--as a symbol, if nothing else. But the boy who lived still lived, and the Dark Lord was no more. Hermione had Apparated to Glasgow the moment she'd heard the news. No one seemed to know if Harry was injured, or dying--no one could tell her exactly what had happened. She had thought about going to Hogwarts instead (her thoughts had flickered to Snape), but she knew that she had to see for herself that Harry was safe. The guards hadn't wanted to let her in, but Remus was there, and had brought her through the barricades, brought her to Harry's room where he lay sleeping, pale and weak, the scar on his forehead a vicious shade of crimson. Sirius was there as well, and he crossed to her, Remus taking the chair he vacated at Harry's side. "He'll be all right," Sirius said, putting his arm around her. She nodded, her eyes dry. "What happened?" she finally managed. "We…we don't know…" Sirius answered. "Nobody is sure." "Hermione?" a voice came from the doorway. She turned to see Ron, a gash on his forearm oozing with blood, a scrape on his cheek, his robes singed. She ran to him, fell into his arms, and, crying now, said, "He's going to be all right. He's going to be all right."
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