Love Vigilantes

“I don’t believe that anybody feels the way I do about you now. And all the roads we have to walk are winding. And all the lights that lead the way are blinding. There are many things that I would like to say to you, but I don’t know how. Because maybe, you’re gonna be the one that saves me. And after all, you’re my wonderwall.” (Wonderwall, as covered by Ryan Adams)

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Hermione got ready quickly the next morning, hoping that her fervor would make the school day pass more speedily. She was looking forward to finishing Pride and Prejudice, knowing that she and Severus hadn’t reached some of her favorite scenes the night before. She could practically hear Severus’ insults in her head when she thought of how he would react to Lydia’s running off with the disreputable Mr. Wickham. Sure, he had previously thought Hermione was insufferable, but Hermione was certainly no Lydia Bennet. She just hoped that he wouldn’t give her too much grief for the sentimental blob of mush she would become at the story’s close. She couldn’t help but love seeing Elizabeth and Darcy together. Their relationship was an inspiration to her; their love had overcome serious challenges. Despite it being a work of fiction, Hermione found a great deal of hope in it. Musing on these thoughts, Hermione relished in the deliciousness of a full breakfast and conversed convivially with her friends. It felt like the first time she had done so in ages. She was finally beginning to feel like herself again.

She made her way back down to the dungeons with Ron and Harry in tow, but stopped in surprise when she found Professor McGonagall behind the door instead. Harry and Ron high-fived each other almost instantly, but Hermione felt as though her heart was working its way up to her throat as she realized that Severus’ disappearance could mean that something was horribly wrong. He would never miss a class if he could help it, and she was convinced that he would have told her if he was planning on leaving. She sat down at her desk, stunned into silence and waiting to start their assignment, hoping the work would take her mind off the ominous feeling hanging over the room. She hoped that she was only overreacting, but couldn’t help remembering what had happened the last time Severus had been called away from Hogwarts.

“Good morning, students,” Professor McGonagall began. “Unfortunately, Professor Snape has been called away and is clearly unable to moderate his classes. He has, however, left plenty of assignments to keep you busy, the first of which is written on the board for you to copy. I suggest you get to work. I will be available to answer your questions to the best of my ability.”

Hermione immediately began copying the notes that had been prepared for them, noticing how her usually immaculate handwriting had become uneven from the slightly anxious shaking of her hand. She couldn’t bring herself to focus; her mind was reeling with seemingly endless questions. McGonagall had said that Severus left plenty of assignments. Did he know that he was going to be gone for a while? Was he making arrangements in the event that he didn’t return? Hermione’s mind was plagued with such morbid and distracting thoughts. She finished the notes, all the while berating herself for her level of concern. The rest of the period passed torturously slow for Hermione even despite her ability to complete the assigned potion under the duress of her feelings. After they were dismissed, she wanted nothing more than to lie in her bed and think before Charms began, but her plans were soon tossed aside when Ron and Harry dragged her to the Great Hall.

Hermione ate very little during the meal, arousing the suspicions of her friends, who immediately began asking questions. She was too tired and upset to answer them, but let the inquisition begin. She hadn’t been around her friends much recently and wanted to make an attempt at reconnecting with them. She realized how little she knew about Harry’s progress in his plans against Voldemort and made a mental note to catch up with him later. For now, she focused on Ron, who was currently talking to her.

“Hey, Hermione,” Ron started quietly, as if afraid to startle her, “you seemed a little off in Potions, today. Harry and I know something’s bothering you. There’s no point in pretending that there isn’t, so you might as well just tell us.”

“Yeah,” Harry added half heartedly, attempting to get in on the conversation.

“Fine, but if you make fun of me, I’ll push you off a cliff,” Hermione replied, noticing that she had surprised them with her readiness to comply, even despite her mildly humorous death threat. “I’m just concerned about Professor Snape not showing up in Potions. He didn’t say anything to me when we were working last night, and our work is so important that I’m sure he wouldn’t miss an opportunity to continue it, unless there was some severe sort of distraction. Then, when McGonagall said that he had left plenty of work for us to do, it made me wonder if he had planned this entire thing out, like he knew he was going to be gone. And I know I have no right to complain, but if that’s the case, I wish he had told me. Anyway, I’ll get over it; it’s no big deal. I seem to be the only one worried about him, anyway. I’m sure McGonagall would have looked worried if something were amiss. Go back to your food.” She stared at them when they did nothing, wondering why they persisted in making her life miserable.

“Well, that very well could be the case, Hermione,” Harry initiated after an uncomfortable two minutes of silence, “but I don’t think it’s best to jump to that conclusion. I mean, really, Hermione, think about it. No offense, but you would probably be just like Snape if you were a professor.” He continued quickly with his explanation after seeing Hermione move to cut him off in protest. “Professor Snape is exactly the kind of anal retentive control freak who would have his entire year of classes planned out before the term even begins. It wouldn’t surprise me if he had all sorts of crazy schedules and lists and calendars, just like the ones you make for yourself. The answer to your problem could be as easily solved with him waking up with a head cold. I know it’s not the response you’re looking for, but if you consider it, it might make this day better for you. I’m sorry you’re upset, though. Even though I don’t understand it, I get the respect that you have for him.” He watched her as she registered his hypothesis, hoping that what he said had some impact on her. If there were some way to make her feel better, he would do whatever he could. He painfully remembered each time Dumbledore had left the school without informing him first. Although he knew that he had no right to question the Headmaster’s wisdom, Harry couldn’t help the knots that would form in his stomach when Dumbledore was gone. He always ended up feeling unfortunately vulnerable. If Hermione were going through anything like he had, which Harry could only assume was the case, she was going through hell. Even though he hated to admit it, Harry agreed with Hermione and found it unlikely that Snape would leave without mentioning it either to her or his classes. He, of course, would never tell her that; he didn’t want her to be miserable.

“Yeah, thanks, Harry, I’m sure it’s nothing big. He’ll probably be back tomorrow. I’m going to get to Charms early. I’ll see you there.”

Harry and Ron watched as she walked away, turning to look at each other nervously, knowing that Hermione still didn’t believe a word they had said.

*******

Hermione didn’t show up for Charms. In fact, she didn’t show up to any of her classes for the rest of the day. Ron and Harry knew better than to go looking for her; when Hermione wanted to be alone, she meant it. It was not that she was ever anti-social; she merely appreciated the value of personal time, something that was hard to come by when living in a dormitory in which everyone hung out with everyone all the time, every day. Even her private room as Head Girl failed to afford her the silence she craved on occasion. So, the boys continued on with their days as though nothing was wrong, as if she wasn’t missing. They told their teachers she wasn’t feeling well. It wasn’t exactly a lie, per se, just a manipulation of the truth. They knew wherever she was, she was trying to figure out what was wrong with Snape, through they had no idea what gave her reason enough to care. They couldn’t be happier that he was missing in action, although they’d never tell Hermione that. He may have stopped being malicious towards Hermione, but it wasn’t enough for them to change their opinions of him. He was still a right git, in their minds.

Knowing that Ron and Harry would inevitably cover her back, Hermione had spent the afternoon sitting under a tree by the Black Lake, thinking things through. She knew she should stop worrying and focus instead on more important things, but something nagging at the back of her mind told her that she should be concerned. So she had sat there, doing nothing all day, loathing her own procrastination. She knew she wasn’t helping anyone by sitting around in the grass, but somehow the life in the woods around her and the gentle rippling of the lake gave her room for some of the clarity she so desperately craved. She felt a part of something greater than herself and her problems, something that was content to simply exist. Still, she felt an odd pressure rising in her chest and finally decided to relieve some of it by writing. It was not the kind of writing she was used to, the kind of writing that had become like a second job to her, academic writing. No, she wanted to write like she did when there was no one watching, no one grading, no one expecting the best. She wanted to write for her, without the constant pressure of impressing her teachers and classmates. It was this kind of writing that she preferred to keep all to herself. Through her entire magical experience and all of her adventures as part of the Golden Trio, Hermione’s writings had kept her sane. She found it quite easy to translate her worries, fears, and emotions into poetry and prose; it was a secret she never planned on sharing, not even with Severus. Her private work was too personal, too much a part of her to be comfortably shared. So that afternoon, she took out the journal that she had kept over the years and began to write again. It had been months since she had last written in it. She wasn’t exactly the journaling type; she just didn’t have the time. But now with no one to talk to, no one to understand her unease about Severus, she decided that writing was perhaps the only outlet for her conflicting thoughts. And so she began to write.


March 5, 1997

It’s not fair. Today was going to be the second day in a row that Severus and I were going to be “normal”, so to speak. A new record. That’s the way it should have been. But no, things are turning out just as they always do. As soon as things in my life start to go right, the world pushes me back down, waiting to make me miserable. “Wait, Hermione’s about to be happy, we can’t let that happen!” the fates say, and so the universe fucks me over yet again. Every year the cycle begins anew. Harry, Ron, and I think the worst is over, and then something else comes and ruins it all. Now, with Voldemort back, who knows when we’ll have that sense of security again?

I’m so sick of it all. I’m afraid, too paranoid to become close to people for the fear of them being ripped away from me at the first opportunity. So I push people out. I push them away and instead hold on to my books, theories and essays. My knowledge will never leave me, facts will not betray me, but my friends can and most likely will. I’ve gone through my years at Hogwarts comfortably numb, detaching myself from those I love the most, hoping it won’t hurt as much if they should die in the war. I know it won’t help, but I can at least try. Up until now it’s been working. Up until I let Severus Snape into my life. Up until I wasn’t able to let him go. I should have seen it coming. I felt myself hoping that it would work, hoping that we could be happy. I convinced myself things would be different this time. It’s my fault he’s gone. I couldn’t detach, I let myself trust. I’ve brought the world’s revenge on myself yet again, and pulled him with me into my own personal hell. He’s gone, disappeared. He could be in pain or dying right at this moment, and I could never know. I could lose him at any minute. Images of his torture flash through my mind, just like in my dream. We won’t make it out of this together, but how I want to.

I shouldn’t care this much. It shouldn’t hurt. I know he doesn’t love me, at least not the way I love, yes love, him. So why do I still care? Why am I putting myself through this? I’m jumping through hoops to impress him, make him notice me, and I know he never will, not the way I want him to. I’ll never be good enough for him. I should hate him for everything he’s put me through, and I did! I hated him with everything I had, and then all of a sudden it changed. How could I have been so stupid? There is nothing logical about what we have, no plausible argument for my emotions. What happened to that part of my intellect that shut down, that told me to run when I had the chance? I hate myself for feeling, staying, caring, defending, hoping, and loving. I hate myself for him. I can’t forgive myself for caring more about what happens to him than what happens to Harry or Ron. I owe them more than that; they’re my best friends.

But I still can’t help thinking that Severus is going to be the one that saves us; that one day, we’re going to owe everything to him, that people will see him the way I do. But no matter what happens, he’ll never feel the way I do about him. How can he when he doesn’t even love himself? But I won’t give up. I will never lose faith. I will never lose heart. I will stand by his side, even if he doesn’t want me there. Because I know it’s too late to turn away. I’ve tried and failed. I’m too involved to let go now. If he hurts me, fine. I shouldn’t expect anything more from him. Nothing’s worked out to begin with, anyway. Why should this be any different? Whatever way this ends, I will lose.

Hermione’s inner turmoil continued to flow out through the ink of her pen, making her situation seem even more real, more vivid. She knew she was being melodramatic and childish but didn’t care. She needed this, the catharsis of getting her worst, most desperate emotions out on paper. It made her sick to look over them. Instead of calming her, as her writing often did, it only worsened her depression. She leaned back against the tree, placed her notebook on the ground, unable to finish, and closed her eyes. She needed some way to deal with her pain, something new, something different, for the pain she was experiencing now was indeed new and different, as well. But until she figured out what that would be, she laid down in the grass and cried until she fell asleep from exhaustion, not caring if anyone would be worried enough to look for her. She didn’t care if the next day came or not.

Perhaps it would be better if it didn’t.