Tension in the Laboratory

Hermione spent the next several days devising a syllabus for each year’s instruction in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Being academically gifted, these tasks came easily to her. But it began to occur to her that as much as she might enjoy teaching and excel at its various skills, she craved something else, a more immediate connection with a fight for justice.

While she went about her days teaching and developing a better structure for a class that had never had a long-term instructor, she did not talk to Snape. Their conversation about marriage seemed unreal, and she wondered from time to time if it had ever happened. Snape was aloof during meals when they both sat at the Head Table, where they generally were seated on opposite sides of Dumbledore. Hermione watched Snape’s expression during mealtimes. She was getting better at reading him. She was prepared to find him mean-spirited and unfair, but of late, he said and did very little. During Dumbledore’s speeches, he maintained an expression of ominous patience that made the First Years tremble visibly.

One morning, Hermione sat at the Head Table scanning the Daily Prophet, as she did every morning, looking for signs of Voldemort’s work. Late autumn was sinking into winter. Dawn came late and reluctantly, and dusk fell early with enthusiasm. Sunlight, when it pierced the gray mist that seemed to overlay the grounds, cast tepid light. Hermione crunched her toast and sipped strong tea, reading every word of every article. At some point, she began counting how many times “loyalty” and “oath” appeared.

“Hermione.” Hermione started. It was McGonagall, standing in front of her looking sternly maternal. “You seem to have found something useful in that disgraceful rag.”

Hermione folded the paper and began stacking her books and notes together. “Fifty-five instances of the word ‘loyalty,’ 35 of ‘oath’,” she replied. “They’re on everyone’s mind at the Prophet, even if it’s not stated outright.” She pushed back her high-backed oaken chair and began walking around the Head Table.

“Come with me,” McGonagall commanded. She waved her wand in a large circle over her and Hermione’s heads and immediately, all noise around them ceased, and they spoke as if they were the only ones in the world, although the people moving around them seemed to hear each other.

“Did you hear about the Muggles?” McGonagall said, as she and Hermione began marching smartly down the corridors.

“What about them?” Hermione silently berated herself for not getting her owl to pick up some discarded copy of a Muggle newspaper.

“Three dead at King’s Cross station. The Muggle media says a drug deal gone wrong, but the bodies had no marks on them. It reeks of You-Know-Who.”

They both shuddered. “Be on your guard, dear,” McGonagall said. “He is coming. Soon. Teach your pupils well. And—" McGonagall glanced around quickly, “do look out for Severus. None of us really knows where his loyalties lie.”

Overwhelmed with gratitude and fondness, Hermione could only nod. McGonagall reached out as if to pat her cheek, but at the last second, pulled her hand back. She swung her wand as before, and normal sound returned. Then she abruptly morphed into a tabby cat and sprang back up the corridor the way she had come, weaving in and out between the students’ legs.

Hermione began to descend into the dungeons. Today she had decided the Fourth Years, and even precocious Third Years, should learn how to cast a Patronus. She had captured a boggart for the purpose. This particular boggart seemed to have had a reaction to having seen a real Dementor and now only transformed itself into a Dementor. Hermione reflected a little sadly that the boggart was probably not long for the world. However, it was crucial to teach as many witches and wizards as possible to cast a Patronus, and do it soon, so Hermione tempered her sympathy for the boggart. The mists around Hogwarts seemed thicker than they ever had before, and Hermione was beginning to wonder if they represented more than just fog.

She got through the first couple of periods without incidence. But then came the Fourth Years. Hermione delivered a lecture she thought might rival Lupin’s and began the lab part of the class. Each student tried to conjure up a Patronus. One or two had some silver threads spurt from their wands after several tries, but not more.

Feeling bored, Hermione summoned the next student, a spotty, gangly youth of Algerian extraction, to try his hand at it. The student braced himself, trying to conceal his trembling lower lip, as Hermione opened the cabinet where the boggart was stored. Rather than watch the student, Hermione glanced at the clock. It read “on alert”. But then the hand began spinning wildly around and around. Hermione became aware that nothing was happening behind her. She heard the student whimpering. Impatience surged through her.

“Oi, Ahmed, you can do better than...tha...” She spun around. The boggart was still in the cabinet. She could hear it quivering. But from the open window drifted an opaque shape, scabby hands reaching. A low moaning filled the room. Hermione felt all happiness and hope draining from her. She knew well the soul-sucking power of the Dementor. She forced herself to concentrate on a happy memory—those moments when she felt sure of Snape’s intentions—raised her wand and said with cool authority, “Expecto Patronum!”

The otter streamed out of her wand and swam playfully in the air before the Dementor, which floated back out the window. Hermione rushed after it. The windows were set high in the walls, like prison cell windows. Hermione slashed her wand in the air. “Elevato!” Up she flew, where she grasped the wrought iron window sash, turned the clasp shaped like a fanged snake, and pushed hard. The window heaved open, and wind roared in. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and pushed her face closer to the opening.

Though she and the class were in the dungeons, the ground dropped off steeply below. Looking down, Hermione saw Draco Malfoy standing on the green, wand raised, a smirk on his face, watching her. He flicked his wand. Hermione flinched instinctively, and the curse zinged past her ear. Without thinking, she pointed her wand back at him, aiming just to his left, then again, to his right. Draco made as if to dodge right to elude the first hex, but something invisible jerked him backward. He stumbled, regaining his footing with a threatening glare. Hermione barely had time to note the livid blotchiness of his face and something underneath the disdain—-desperation?—-before a red jet of light shot at her. She ducked this time, and the hex flew through the window to hit the far wall in a shower of sparks.

Hermione hurled another hex. But again, something seemed to pull Draco out of harm’s way. Cold fear washed over Hermione. What was out there? Nothing except Harry’s cloak could confer that kind of invisibility. Or could it? She jabbed her wand 12 times through the window, sending a battery of curses in a circle around Draco. The red light flared in angry wheals through the sullen air. Dimly, she was aware of shouting on the green. People were coming. To her astonishment, several of the hexes found their mark. An explosion rocked the air. Hermione toppled to the floor, as did all the students in her classroom, with screams and cries.

In the confusion that followed, Hermione tried to regain her feet. She could not think properly. Her head felt muzzy and confused. She could hear a low rumble of incantations outside, but could not recognize the voices.

“I have a message,” hissed a cold voice in her ear. Hermione jerked her head around, but no one was there. “You can’t see me, and neither can they, but I have a message all the same. You will give me access to this classroom, or you will go the way of the other Dark Arts teachers or worse. Think of what I say. I shall be back tomorrow. Do not tell anyone else of what I say. If you do, you will trigger an Avada Kedavra.”

Hermione swung up her wand in what she realized belated was a drunken angle. She heard malicious laughter, and then nothing.

“E-elevato!” Hermione managed to say, and flew up to the window again.

On the green she spied the Heads of Houses waving their wands and saying spells. Snape’s face was unreadable, but everyone else’s expressions were set in lines of grim resolve.

“Hermione!” The voice came from a young man with tousled hair and a bright red lightening bolt on his forehead. “There she is! At the window!”

“What’s brought you here, Potter?” she heard Snape say spitefully. “Tired of being out of the spotlight now that you’ve graduated?”

Hermione lowered herself from the high window back to standing on the floor. The students were getting to their feet. “Are you all right, Miss Granger?” one of them, a tall Fourth Year, said.

“I’m quite all right,” she snapped, hoping she sounded offended. She felt decidedly ill. “Class dismissed. Please return to your Houses.”

“You don’t look well, miss,” the Fourth Year persisted.

Hermione gritted her teeth. If she stood there much longer, she was going to lose breakfast or consciousness, and she certainly didn’t want some spotty Fourth Year to witness it. “Please attend to my instructions, Chapman, or I’ll dock points from Hufflepuff.”

Chapman reluctantly gathered his books like the others and left the classroom. Hermione could hear the sound of many adult footsteps coming toward her.

Dumbledore was first through the door, followed closely by the Heads of House and Harry.

“Miss Granger,” Dumbledore said, “what exactly has happened?”

“Nothing,” she managed. “Some prank of Draco Malfoy’s.”

She saw Snape look at her quizzically, then whisper something in Dumbledore’s ear. Dumbledore nodded. “Please follow Professor Snape to his office and take whatever health measures he advises. Harry, please come with me.”

Harry looked momentarily furious, but spun on his heel to follow Dumbledore. “Thanks, Harry,” Hermione croaked in his direction.

Harry threw a rueful glance over his shoulder before leaving.

As McGonagall, Flitwick, and Slughorn chatted briefly, Snape said to Hermione in coldly formal tones, “Follow me, please, Miss Granger.”

Hermione, swaying slightly, began following him.

“Severus,” McGonagall said sternly, “she’s in no condition to be walking around.”

Snape took another close look at Hermione. “My mistake, Minerva,” he said a bit too smoothly. “Mobilicorpus.”

To her humiliation, Hermione rose several inches in the air and began moving out of the room, following Snape’s wand. After a few moments, the relief of not having to expend energy made her relax, and she allowed herself to be led to Snape’s nearby office.

Once inside, Snape slammed the door. He looked angrier than she had seen him in quite some time. He grabbed Hermione by the upper arms, pulled her close, then cupped her face in his hands and tilted it upward. “Look up,” he commanded. She did. “Look left. Now right. Now look at me.” Hermione bit her lip, but met his eye, which now held only professional interest. He pulled out his wand, keeping one hand on the side of her face, and began saying spells that Hermione had never heard before. After one of them, Hermione’s head suddenly felt better and the nausea lifted.

“Put me down, please,” she said.

Snape threw her one of his inscrutable looks and continued to saying spells for a few more minutes. When he was done, he lowered her to the floor and put away his wand.

“Now,” he said in a voice that wasn’t going to take no for an answer, “what did He say to you?”

“I can’t— And how do you know it was, was—"

“Call it experience,” he said grimly. “I’ve removed the conditional Avada Kedavra. Now tell me what he said!”

“He—" she swallowed, “wants access to my class.”

Snape exhaled and tightened his jaw.

“I’m to give him my answer tomorrow, or suffer the consequences. I don’t care! I’ll never give him access!”

Snape paced in front of her. He shot her a look of impatience. “What about me?” he said finally.

“W-what about you?”

“What about giving me access to the class?”

Anger bubbled up inside Hermione. “This is what you’ve wanted for years! It’s just as McGonagall said! You want to use me to get what you wa—"

He closed the distance between them in three strides, pulled her close, and crushed his mouth down on hers. She was enveloped by his cloak, his arms holding her so tightly to his chest she could barely breath, his mouth moving up to kiss her forehead and hair. He was breathing hard. “Don’t let me lose you, too,” she thought she heard him say into her hair, and then he was kissing her again.