Tension in the Laboratory

“Hermione! Up here!” Harry shouted.

Halfway to trollied already, Hermione noted. Watching Quidditch was so hard on yesteryear’s stars.

She scrambled in the stands, and Ginny thrust a mug of something hot and generously spiked into her hands. Hermione took a long swallow just as the Snitch rose in the air. The Seekers kicked off their brooms, and Hermione heard Harry’s intake of breath. He seemed to have forgotten his own drink. His eyes were fixed on the golden ball as it whizzed around the pitch. She marveled to observe that he could follow the Snitch even when nobody else could, even the Seekers.

“You were really good, Harry,” she said.

He spared her a smile, but kept his eyes on the Snitch.

“And they’re off!” said the student commentator. “Patel almost got the Quaffle, and it’s—oo—it’s a hard hit with a Bludger to Gryffindor Chaser Eric Walker’s head. But no, no, he’s ducked. And it’s Slytherin’s Quaffle…”

Hermione let her attention wander. She was never much for Quidditch anyway. She couldn’t help scanning the Slytherin boxes. She spotted Snape easily enough. He was standing, surveying the pitch with a sneer. A funny pang went through her, and something inside her sank to the pit of her stomach. Why did he have to look around like that? Then she saw him make a small movement with his wrist, holding his wand low.

“Ooh, not a good day for Gryffindor, ladies and gentlemen. Keeper Clarence Ghosh is down, and it looks like, yes, it is. Ghosh is out. Too bad.”

Groans rose around Hermione, but the Slytherins cheered shamelessly.

Hermione whipped her head up. Snape was smiling, a tiny, gloating smirk. Her brows came together.

For several minutes, there was no action on the pitch as McGonagall directed efforts to get medical attention for Ghosh. He was taken off the field in a stretcher, face pale, blood trickling from one nostril. A new Keeper stepped in.

“So it’s backup Keeper Amanda James for Gryffindor,” said the cheery announcer. “And we all know what kind of practices she’s been having.”

The new Keeper’s head snapped up as she cried, “Oi!” and she missed a goal. Slytherin erupted in jubilation, while the Gryffindor team slumped their shoulders.

The game dragged painfully on. Ninety minutes in, the score was 160 to 0 in Slytherin’s favor. Harry and Ginny vainly yelled encouragement to the Gryffindor players below. Ron slouched and scowled. Luna intently regarded a point in the middle distance. At length, she said, “I see the Snitch.”

“Where?” snarled Ron.

“I see it, too,” Harry said. “If only Jones could.” Nigel Jones was the Gryffindor Seeker and like Harry, a wiry youth full of daring and nerve.

The Slytherin Seeker, Freddie Crippen, streaked around the pitch, seemingly everywhere at once. Jones flew lower in a random, confused pattern. Then he shot away.

“He sees it!” Harry exclaimed.

Jones was flying inches from the ground, dodging Bludgers and players, desperately heading for the whirring little ball. And then Crippen switched direction in midair and began nosediving to earth.

Hermione jerked her head up in time to see Snape pointing his wand surreptitiously down. “Look!” she yelled at Harry, pointing up.

Harry saw. “Blood git!”

“Watch the language!” warned an irritable-looking witch sitting nearby with three young children .

The crowd seemed to inhale as one. Hermione tore her attention back to the pitch in time to see Jones and Crippen rolling around on the field, both of them gripping something small. Crippen delivered an uppercut to Jones’s jaw and, using Jones’s body as a shield, kneed him in the groin.

Everyone on the Gryffindor side stood up, yelling, including Hermione and her friends. Jones doubled over, but kept his grip on the Snitch. When opportunity presented itself, he headbutted Crippen mightily. Now the Slytherins gasped. Crippen froze. His eyes rolled back in his head, his grip on the Snitch relaxed, and he fell over. Pandemonium erupted from Gryffindor as Jones held the Snitch aloft.

So Slytherin still won the game, but the score was close enough that the rankings didn’t change.

Hermione was so anxious and angry, she couldn’t sit still.

“Come with us to the Hog’s Head,” Ginny rejoiced. “We need to celebrate!”

“In a minute,” Hermione replied.

Snape had said tomorrow at 10. She couldn’t wait that long to give him a piece of her mind. But how to grab a private moment with him? She could see into his box. He was surrounded by Slytherins, the odious Lucius Malfoy was clapping him on the back. Draco was talking animatedly. Two women were looking out onto the pitch. One was icily blond, very beautiful, with a mournfully depraved air. The other, dark and intimidating, had a smile of frank triumph on her face. Bellatrix Lestrange, Hermione knew. For a moment, Hermione’s gaze met Bellatrix’s, and Bellatrix smiled at her with hooded eyes. Hermione turned her head away, dismayed. Shaking her head slightly, she said to Ginny, “Let’s go.”

Several hours later, she stumbled into her rooms, drunker than she had ever been. She had kept drinking to forget what she had seen Snape do. Every time someone had said, “To Gryffindor!” she had raised her glass. Laughing, she had refused help back from Ginny and Luna. So now she was very alone. She shut her door and fell onto her sofa, asleep.

Eventually, she realized that the hammering in her dream was someone knocking insistently at her door. Groggily, she regained her feet. It was daytime, to judge by the sunlight in her room. She shielded her eyes. Her clothes were wrinkled and a mess. Her hair was sticking out at all angles. She staggered to the door and opened it.

Severus Snape loomed over her. Hermione groaned. His eyes narrowed. “It is 10:30.”

“Oh, it’s you,” Hermione muttered. She went back to the sofa and lay down heavily.

Snape gingerly entered her tiny sitting room and shut the door behind him.

“In nine years, you have never missed an appointment nor been late,” he said. “Are you taking lessons from Potter now?”

“No,” Hermione said to her sofa cushion.

Snape regarded her coldly. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“No!” Hermione said, sitting up and wincing. “No. I’ve been wanting to talk to you since yesterday.” Now she was starting to gather steam. Memory flooded back to her, and with it, her sinking spirits and righteous indignation. “I saw you at the Quidditch game.”

“And?”

“And? Do I need to spell it out? You cheated! I saw your wand move, I saw what happened! I saw you smirk and gloat and, and,” here she broke off, anger rendering her incoherent.

“In short, you saw me behave like the Head of Slytherin House. Surely this is something you expect?” he drawled.

Hermione pushed her hair out of her eyes, squared her jaw, and met his eye. “You behaved like a coward!”

That got him going, she noted with satisfaction. His pale face went a shade whiter. “Hermione, there are some things we need to discuss,” he said very quietly. Hermione felt her heart skip a beat. She waited. He began muttering charms under his breath, ones she had never heard before. At last, he said, “That will do for a little while. Now, to your accusation. There are things I must do and say if I am to serve the Order, not to mention spare my life. You must know this.”

“Of course, I know, but McGona--!”

“I told you from the beginning it’s a subtle game I play. What should I tell Minerva? That I don’t mind someone else taking the position I’ve sought for years? That I don’t mind because—“ He broke off.

“Because what?” she goaded him.