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Chapter Text

It was the end of September, and nights came too quickly, bringing icy winds that cut through anyone foolish enough to venture outside. Hermione wasn’t among them, and despite the cold that lingered inside the castle, she had her rounds to complete. Responsibility demanded it, and she would never shirk her duty. If Ron weren’t so insufferable, repeating every opinion Harry had about the so-called Half-Blood Prince like a mindless echo, perhaps they would have patrolled together. But her patience with the redhead had been wearing thin. There was in him an almost irritating inability to think independently, the same emotional immaturity, the same clumsy perception as always. Sometimes, she wondered if even a stone would have more sensitivity.

Somewhere in a foolish corner of her mind, she still nursed the hope that her relationship with him could evolve. Yet that seemed increasingly unreachable. The usual quarrels were sharper this year, more acidic, as if any small friction sparked something unbearably unpleasant between them. And it drained her. She had lost count of the times she had cried over the past years, whether hidden in the dormitory or locked in the girls’ bathroom, always for the same reason.

Those thoughts circled her mind more than she wished, mingling with the enigma that was the Half-Blood Prince, about whom she had found absolutely nothing in the library. No matter how her mind churned, Hermione kept sharp attention on her surroundings. Her rigidity allowed no distraction. As she turned the final corridor of her round, which, coincidentally, led straight toward the dungeons, the air shifted. Not only did it grow colder, but heavier, almost dense, as if something invisible had just occupied the space. A strange sensation, like a window suddenly flung open… impossible, since that part of the castle had no stained glass.

Shaking her head, she dismissed the most absurd hypotheses. Nothing supernatural. Certainly, it was just proximity to the dungeons. Everything there was colder. That was all. She was about to turn back to Gryffindor Tower when a rustle reached her, followed by the dragging sound of footsteps entering the corridor behind her. Hermione remained calm; it was common to find a student out of bed at this hour. She stepped toward the noise, expecting the offender to surrender and identify themselves quickly.

Still unseen, her Lumos barely illuminated the corridor, but as she drew closer, uneven breathing grew increasingly distinct. And it definitely wasn’t hers. She didn’t panic. Many students hesitated to show themselves, even on the verge of being caught; some, especially newcomers, grew so nervous they could barely breathe. Reaching close enough, the wand raised toward the transgressor, her tone already sharpening for reprimand, when a familiar voice tore through the silence, swallowing all words and nearly her tongue too.

“Lower that damned light, Miss Granger…” Snape’s deep voice echoed along the corridor, forcing an automatic recoil and a slight dip of her wand.

Hermione almost screamed in horror, covering her mouth to stifle it. Redirecting the light to the sides, she finally saw him: Snape, practically on his knees, pressed against the stone wall, breathing fast and unevenly. One hand clutched something below his chest; the robe seemed merely wet at first glance, but then the dark stain seeping between his fingers revealed the truth with brutal clarity: blood. So much blood.

The other hand held his wand, but the tremors, subtle yet persistent, cast doubt on his ability to cast a spell in that state. Her heart leapt violently. Before reasoning whether he would accept her presence or not, instinct alone drove her to kneel in front of him.

“Professor… sir…” she murmured, unsure what to say, how to act. She had never seen him like this. Never seen anyone touch him. The chance of an angry reaction was immense, yet she couldn’t remain frozen.

“Get… out… Granger.” Snape’s voice, still rough, had lost some of its usual venom. Probably the pain corroded even his voice.

Hermione drew a deep breath, clinging to any thread of logic amidst the chaos in her mind. She couldn’t just leave him there. Unthinkable. And there wasn’t much to do in a corridor without potions, supplies...nothing. As unpleasant as Snape was, and he was, by far, one of the most insufferable creatures she had ever crossed, he remained a professor. And it was almost certain that those injuries weren’t acquired in ordinary circumstances… perhaps among shadows that even her curiosity wouldn’t dare imagine.

Hermione wasn’t naive. She had considered more than once the possibility that he moved among Death Eaters, maybe even as an infiltrator. Nobody ever stated it outright, not even Dumbledore, yet the evidence was there: silent yet screaming. Whenever she reflected on it, her thoughts went to the magnitude of the danger he faced. The risk his very existence entailed.

Reasons to help him? Plenty. Even if he didn’t want it.

“Let me help you.” Her hands rose, unsure where to touch or how far she could go. “I’ll take you to the infirmary—”

“I don’t need your help.” Snape replied, the words coming with visible effort. Immediately after, he pressed harder on the wound, a contortion crossing his face, that same face that had seemed incapable of reaction until now.

His breathing grew heavier, irregular. Up close, Hermione noticed sweat trickling down his forehead, dark strands sticking to skin. The realization hit: he could die here. And annoyingly, he seemed to prefer that to accepting her help.

“You aren’t in a position to choose much,” she said, steadying her voice to avoid insolence, summoning every ounce of courage. She grasped the arm holding the wand, firm but cautious, and pulled it up.

For a moment, she considered a levitation spell; much more efficient, yet abandoned the idea immediately. Snape would never trust her to that extent.

“Damn it…” he muttered through clenched teeth, but she didn’t flinch. She managed to lift him, with minimal cooperation from him, because holding him alone was impossible.

“It will be alright, sir. I’ll take you to the infirm—”

“No! My office.” His voice was harsh but unstable. It was clear he wanted to humiliate, punish, strike any trace of insolence, but speaking drained him, leaving him paler with each word.

An alarm rang inside her. Did his behavior make sense? Perhaps not. But he was an adult, and judging by the tension in his face, this wasn’t the first time he faced such a situation. If he didn’t want the infirmary, she had neither the strength nor the right to contradict him. Using her as support, Snape advanced in short, almost dragging steps. Hermione kept pace, feeling the growing weight with each meter. His breathing faltered, sometimes caught in the throat, sometimes escaping in a muted groan; hers was tense, forcibly controlled.

Arriving at his office, the door opened automatically, recognizing its owner. Shadows filled the room. Hermione flicked the torches alive with a quick wand movement, revealing a meticulous order; rigid as the man leaning on her arm. She guided him to the usual chair behind the desk. Snape nearly collapsed onto the seat, a hoarse sound escaping, almost a convulsive sigh, one she never imagined hearing from him.

The metallic smell spread through the room, dense, almost suffocating. Hermione’s stomach churned as she evaluated the impasse: leave or stay and finish what clearly no one else would. He hadn’t said a word, but she could bet the wand he was verbally lashing her with every insult he normally poured from his tongue.

That, exactly that, made everything worse. His silence was alarmingly heavy.

She saw him lift the wand, hand trembling, movement faltering, nothing. The tremor either prevented precision, or he simply lacked focus to cast any spell, not even nonverbally. In better light, it became clear he was growing paler by the minute. Far paler than his usual cadaverous hue. She inhaled. No. She couldn’t leave.

She summoned a chair, sitting across from him. Another spell rotated his chair to face her. With a firm “Accio,” she called everything she’d need: bandages, instruments, and mainly potions. Snape’s arsenal was vast, not surprising, considering who he was.

She waited for a venomous critique, a cutting glance, any trace of habitual hostility. Snape kept his head back, eyes closed, shallow, uneven breaths. That desperation terrified her more than any insult could. Perhaps she didn’t have as much time as she assumed.

Trying to control her own breathing, chest rising too fast, she recalled situations like this, never with Snape, never with Snape, only friends, peers, those she could help. She had read dozens of books on first aid, potions, emergency procedures. Nothing had prepared her for touching the most inaccessible, feared professor in Hogwarts.

Panic was irrational, yet unavoidable. Invading his personal space risked years of detention. No one touched Snape. He was distant, cold, made of shadows and silence, yet now vulnerable enough that she had to ignore all that aura. And if she didn’t act, he would die. That was undeniable.

Deep breath. She resolved: necessary steps would be taken. Whatever it cost.

Step one: uncapping the blood-replenishing potion. Step two… crossed a boundary she never imagined. She wouldn’t dare touch him without warning.

“Professor… I need to administer the blood-replenishing potion.” Her voice low, almost trembling.

Raising the small vial, she approached his thin lips. “Excuse me…” she murmured, as if asking permission from a dormant figure capable of destroying her with a single glance.

The glass tilted slowly, liquid trickling down. A faint tremor ran through him, but no rejection. She silently prayed he retained some awareness to cooperate, to swallow. Relief flooded her when he did. Lucidity remained; enough to comply, whether by stubbornness, pride, or sheer survival instinct.

Heat rose to her cheeks at the intimacy of it, watching him breathe, vulnerable, fingers nearly touching skin… bold, embarrassing. Still, she continued. No one else would.

Another deep breath, seeking clarity and strength. One step completed; the final, most invasive step remained, opening part of his robe to see and treat the wound. Slowly, hands approached the bloodied fabric, lifting only enough. Trembling, she felt foolish, it was medicine, nothing else. Not abuse. The right thing.

“What… the hell do you think you’re doing?” The hoarse voice startled her, hands recoiling instantly. Snape had regained partial awareness, likely thanks to the potion.

“I… I…” stammered Hermione. “You’re injured. The wound is… partially covered.” Face aflame, it was all she could manage.

“Crazy. Out.” Snapped, quieter than usual but no less menacing. Clearly not fully recovered.

“Should I let you die?” she countered, indignant. “Please, let me finish helping you, sir, I can—”

“I don’t need your… damn help.” He cut her off, adjusting in the chair, a muffled sound of pain betraying the effort.

“Fine,” she exclaimed, standing abruptly. “Then do it yourself. Heal yourself, and I’ll leave you in peace.”

He glared, a look that could make Neville sob for a month. Fingers fumbled over the coat buttons, tremors thwarting him. Frustrated, wand drawn from sleeve, tried again. Nothing. Not a single click, no button yielded.

Hermione sat again, uninvited. Silence hung heavier than stone walls. Using magic was necessary, hands alone were intimate, impossible under his gaze.

A quick flourish exposed bare chest and abdomen. Focusing solely on the wound, she controlled her breath, though blushing was inevitable. Snape was gaunt, muscles apparent but not defined, dark chest hair marking his torso, old scars she didn’t examine; three deep cuts just below the chest demanded attention. Not spellwork, likely claws. She dismissed speculation.

Other injuries existed, but none so alarming. Eyes lowered, avoiding him, yet feeling his gaze burn, interpreting every movement as a personal affront. Focused, determined, she began cleaning the wounds delicately.

“Entirely inappropriate…” he muttered, as if to himself. Head heavy, leaning back.

“I see nothing inappropriate, sir. Only saving your life,” she replied, gathering dignity, expecting he’d try to embarrass now.

“I didn’t ask you to,” he growled, hand on forehead, elbow on chair, lips pressed tight, tension visible.

“Certainly not,” she responded firmly. “But that doesn’t change reality.”

A long, disdainful exhale.

“Bet Potter will know every millimeter of my wounds tomorrow,” he said slowly, breathing more stable, though shoulders arched, hand resting on chair, a silent, cruel resistance.

Hermione exhaled.

“I suppose not, sir… Let’s say… you’re a delicate topic between us,” she said, dripping Dittany over the wounds. Snape tensed, jaw locked, eyes narrowing, piercing her with impatience. Every gesture seemed provocation.

“Potter blames me for Black’s death.” His voice low, venom-laced, testing her audacity to disagree.

She hesitated, unsure it was right to reveal that to someone Harry despised and distrusted. Total trust in him? Absent. Their relationship smaller than that of mere student and professor, almost nonexistent, limited to moments he took the effort to provoke or insult.

“Well… yes. Many differing perceptions about events and people, and some things Harry thinks he knows,” she answered, carefully. Sufficient; revealing little yet responding.

“And what do you think?” he asked, locking eyes again. He accepted the pain potion she offered; timing perfect, she thought.

“About you?” Wounds finally closing, she met his gaze for the first time.

“Yes…” he confirmed, impatient hand gesture.

“Thus far, you’ve proven trustworthy. Often working behind the scenes for our cause, saving us more times than I can count. That is enough for me.” Eyes lowered; a flourish cleaned dried blood, another returned his robes to buttoned, tidy state. “And… I blame only Sirius for his own death. Reckless, not that I wished it…”

“No need for self-flagellation, Granger. Never would I suppose a Gryffindor wished death upon anyone…” His voice ironical, rising slowly, he leveraged the chair, standing with effort, each movement imposing authority, even weakened. Hermione interpreted the gesture and rose almost instinctively.

“Feeling better, sir?” Ignoring the irony, concern still ruled; tremors persisted, perhaps magical in origin, explaining why nothing worked, not even the pain potion.

“The only thing blocking my full recovery is your presence, Granger. Leave. Now.”

Weight of rejection pressed, unsurprising. Gratitude absent. Each word brimming with irritation and contempt. Yet she noted his intense gaze: eyes dark, scanning every move, awaiting error to punish.

Head held high, heart racing, she approached the door. Before crossing the threshold, Snape’s cold voice cut through:

“Fifty points from Gryffindor… for daring to be meddlesome.”

The door slammed, echoing unnaturally, yet Hermione remained firm. A warmth of exasperation and anger mingled with relief: she had saved the life of a man who would never acknowledge or thank her. Every fiber of her body burned with the injustice, his disdain. Still, no regret. Rather, she knew she had done admirable work, and he would have to live with it.

Chapter Text

The following day, classes dragged on, indifferent to Hermione's state of mind. She was not in a good mood, and, frankly, she hadn't expected to be. Harry had shone again in Potions, guided by the cursed Half-Blood Prince's book; Ron was irritable, unable to shake off the drama with Ginny; and she, in turn, felt heavy-eyed and restless after a sleepless night.

Returning to the dormitory after tending to Snape, the hope for rest dissipated as quickly as it had surfaced. Sleep eluded her, swallowed by rage and indignation. Fifty points stolen from her House... it wasn't just a punishment; it was a cold, cruel blow. Hermione swallowed hard, trying to ignore the injustice, but she couldn't dismiss the thought of that professor.

He had been so wounded... and it disturbed her in a way she couldn't name. Every detail of that sight brought silent questions, questions she didn't dare articulate aloud. What was he doing there, in the shadows of Voldemort’s circle? Was the Dark Lord furious with Snape for some slip-up, some mistake he had made? Some information he failed to intercept, some mission he botched? Or was it just that old, silent hatred for failing to achieve his final objective, Harry's death, all those years ago? Each possibility left her more restless, and the tightness in her chest only grew.

Whatever it was, it had been cruel, and it shook her more than she cared to admit. The worst part was knowing that this was likely not the first, nor would it be the last time he went through it. There was also the way he didn't seem used to being cared for; almost uncomfortable with the attention. It was easy to imagine that, most of the time, he simply fended for himself... and her insistence had exposed him more than he allowed anyone.

But how could she have left him that way? How could she close her eyes knowing that the man risking his life to keep her and her friends safe, to give Harry even a chance, was slumped in a chair, bleeding, left to his own luck? How could she accept that he might die when she could have lessened his pain?

A stubborn part of her mind argued that he had been a Death Eater for years, that suffering and inflicting pain were part of his life... and that this had nothing to do with her. She repeated that he was ungrateful, harsh, profoundly unpleasant, and did not deserve her concern. If she needed proof, she only had to remember the hostility with which he had treated her, and the fifty points he'd snatched away without the slightest hesitation.

Furthermore, she couldn't state with absolute certainty that he was loyal to the Order. She believed it, of course; she had reason to believe it. But certainties? None. He could very well be the traitor Harry imagined him to be. And his behaviour, detestable at virtually every turn, didn't help matters. Yet, for every accusation her mind raised, another part presented a justification, however small, and Hermione remained stuck in this impasse for much longer than she intended. She only drifted off when the sky began to lighten. Her last thought before surrendering to sleep was that she wouldn't tell the boys anything. It would serve no benefit and would inevitably end in an argument. Harry, especially, would say she should have let him die.

Well, her mood didn't improve when, after lunch, the next class was precisely with the man himself, and he seemed even more irritable than usual, pouring disdain and insults upon anyone who failed to execute a non-verbal spell. Hermione, at least, was not the direct target of his fury; she got the spell right on the first try. But she had more than enough time to notice that he was not entirely well. She could have sworn she saw the hand holding his wand tremble, a small shudder that repeated two, perhaps three times. She spent longer than she should have analyzing it. Her first guess was a torture curse; the Cruciatus, most likely. She wasn't surprised. It was to be expected that Voldemort would punish his followers that way.

As always, no praise had been directed at her. It was a common disappointment, a natural part of leaving a class with Snape. But that afternoon, his silence felt different. She felt pathetic for expecting anything else. Why would it be different? They weren't friends. They were barely allies. He had acted exactly as he always did; it was she who was... strange. Thinking things she shouldn't, observing him too much, feeling too much.

At dinner, she caught herself looking more than she should at the professors' table, seeking a certain bored and disdainful face, only to find him completely oblivious to everything, including her. Snape looked absent. His gaze was fixed on some undefined point, as if he didn't truly see it. The plate before him remained untouched and, when he finally seemed to return to himself, it was only to stand up and leave the Hall without a word. And there was Hermione, wondering for the thousandth time if he really was alright... and what, exactly, was consuming him like that. Harry had commented that Hagrid had overheard an argument between Dumbledore and Snape one night, the Headmaster expressing clear disapproval; something rare and unsettling.

Hermione then wondered if that meant Snape, after all, was not truly on their side, gradually proving his loyalty to Voldemort... or if he had simply failed Dumbledore in some task. No one is perfect, after all; even he had the right to make a mistake. And considering the way he seemed not to care much for his own life, perhaps he was simply... Exhausted. But she did not dare share her opinions with her friends. She knew the subject would reignite endless discussions, and she was so tired she only wanted to collapse into bed and sleep. She craved the sweet relief of slumber; anything that would silence, for a few hours, the weight of the world and her own mind.

Lying down, however, she concluded that she might indeed be obsessive. Effortlessly, her thoughts returned to the feared Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. Worse: to the scene where she had needed to undress him partially to treat him. One of the most embarrassing situations of her life, and perhaps, of his too. Alone, protected by the silence and her own impenetrable mind, she allowed herself to revisit the memory with greater clarity. This time, without the panic, she could truly notice the man's pale body. She had never been so close to an adult man’s body, much less imagined the first would be that of her professor.

The strangest thing, however, was not the situation itself, but the absence of revulsion. She felt only... curiosity. Curiosity about the scars, the history of each one, and, Merlin, about something even more insane: what would it be like to trace them with her fingertips? And how would he react if she dared such a touch?

How absurd.

Like forcefully closing a book, she pushed these memories to the back of her mind. She turned on her side and grabbed the pillow with determination, trying to smother the thought before it gained a life of its own.

***

Night engulfed the castle, leaving everything in a saturated penumbra; dense, thick shadows, as if they were breathing. Only a few torches flickered here and there, casting trembling lights that concealed more than they revealed. The cold of the floor against Hermione's feet seemed to worsen with every step, as if the stone were stealing something from her; warmth, clarity, courage.

Why, in Merlin's name, hadn't she put on shoes? And why was she in such a hurry? The question arose, but the answer... no. Nothing. As if her own mind had refused to formulate any explanation. She walked quickly, barely hearing her own body. The portraits, the walls, the frames, the sculptures, everything was just a blur. As if the castle were dissolving in her peripheral vision, leaving only the path ahead starkly clear.

She wanted to slow down. She wanted to stop. She wanted, at least, to turn left, to the right, any direction but that one. But it was impossible. Her muscles didn't respond, as if they were threads being pulled by invisible hands. The sensation was of being enchanted... or dragged, magnetized, drawn by a silent call that bypassed reason.

Her loose pyjamas and open robe floated around her as she accelerated even more, exposing too much skin to the cold air. Inappropriate. Indecent. Wrong in a way she couldn't even name. Yet, she couldn't bring herself to care. Or rather, she couldn't think. Logical ideas came in a haze, as if something pushed them back into the depths before they could take form.

The castle seemed to whisper with her hurried footsteps. And she followed; powerless, dragged by something she did not understand. Suddenly, her feet simply... stopped. As if they had hit an invisible barrier. The shock ran through her body before she even understood what was happening. She looked around slowly, as if her neck were too heavy. Past the darkened portraits, the stone reliefs, the statues warped by the shadows... she was in the dungeons. The dungeons.

A thin, incisive shiver ran down her spine, as quick as a snap. Immediately after, a short, icy, unnatural gust of wind blew from some corner, tangling her hair, raising goosebumps on her arms. The torches trembled... and extinguished one by one with a muffled pop. Darkness fell upon her like a heavy cloth. Her heart reacted first: a violent leap, then frantic, erratic beats.

Hermione raised her hand with her wand, but the gesture was shaky, weak. It was as if she held the object but wasn't sure she could use it, as if her fingers were not as obedient as they should be. She took a deep breath, but the air felt denser, heavy, suffocating, as if something was sharing the same space. Her eyes desperately searched for any glimmer, any break in the darkness. A thread of light, a reflection, a movement...

Nothing.

Lumos rose to her throat; a silent plea, a survival reflex, but it went no further. It didn't come out. The word drowned before it could even reach her lips. It was then that another sense awoke: a smell. A metallic, cold, almost ferrous odour... but not exactly blood. Something that announced danger, something that did not belong to the school or any safe place.

Instinctively, she took a step back.

It was enough to collide, forcefully, against something rigid, solid, warm enough to be a body. A body behind her. The air fled her lungs in a gasp. She turned so quickly that the movement almost knocked her down and tried to speak. Who is it? What do you want? Anything. But her voice simply... did not come. It was trapped in her throat, crushed by the panic that grew with every second.

The figure in front of her did not move. Did not breathe loudly. Did not step back. It was an unmoving presence, too still to be human, yet unmistakably human. Hermione reached out her hands, instinctive, desperate, trying to understand what was before her. Her fingers touched thick, firm, smooth fabric... known fabric. A fabric she had held before, on a recent night that insisted on haunting her.

Her fingers slid until they found a row of buttons. The confirmation fell upon her like a bucket of icy water.

Snape.

She held her breath. She pulled her hands back immediately, only to realize that something warm was streaming over her fingers. Something viscous. Lukewarm. The movement toward her face was automatic, involuntary. A single moment was enough for the smell to hit her, unmistakable.

Blood.

The panic exploded inside her with such violent force that her knees almost gave way. Before she could think, she was already fumbling with his chest again, the soaked robes, the heavy fabric clinging to the man's body from the absurd amount of blood.

"— No... no..." the whisper had no strength, no owner.

She pressed down where she thought the wound was coming from, but it was useless. The bleeding wouldn't stop. It flowed incessant, hot, pouring over her skin, running down her wrists, her forearms. His robe was drenched. Hermione's hand sank into the soggy fabric as if pressing a sponge.

And he — he did not react.

He stayed there. Standing. Still as stone.

As if he felt no pain.

As if he were already... empty.

Hermione gasped, her breathing so short and erratic that she seemed to choke on herself. Sweat ran down her forehead, mixing with the blood that now stained everything she touched. She wiped her brow with the back of her hand by reflex, only staining herself more. The icy floor beneath her feet was suddenly replaced by something warm spreading in a slow, viscous stream... blood pooling at her ankles.

The sob came before she realized it. A broken, ripped sound.

Then, the tears. They fell hot, loud, salty.

And then, finally, her voice broke the barrier that held it captive.

"— No! No! NO!" she heard herself scream, but it sounded distant, as if it were someone else. "I won't let you die! I won't!"

Even with the wand slipping between her fingers; so slick with blood and sweat she could barely close them. Hermione tried to cast a spell. Any spell.

Her choked voice stumbled over the words, the anguish tightening her throat like an invisible hand.

"— Accio... help... Accio... anything..." she stammered, then tried in thought, in despair, as if magic could hear her internal screams.

But nothing answered.

Not a single spark.

Not a breath of light.

It was as if she had been abandoned by magic, by the gods, by the entire universe. The wand slipped for good and fell to the floor with a dull clatter. She didn't even notice. She grabbed the piece of fabric she had managed to tear from her own clothes and pressed the wound, wherever it was, with all the strength she had.

The blood kept flowing.

It kept staining her hands.

It kept turning the floor into a dark lake that swallowed her up to the ankles.

It kept... taking away all hope.

Then his voice sounded.

"— Let me... Granger..."

That deep, grave voice boomed in an impossible way, echoing through the dungeon, the corridors, her very chest.

He was there, unmoving... but it sounded as if he spoke from all directions at once.

"— Let me die..."

And he repeated it.

And he repeated it.

And repeated it; like a sentence, a curse, a cruel mantra.

Hermione wept without realizing she was crying. The tears fell, mingling with the blood. The fabric in her hands no longer had colour, no longer had shape. She just kept going. Kept pressing. Kept trying. Kept denying.

"— I can't... I can't..." she sobbed, her voice failing, as her fingers trembled with exhaustion.

But his plea only grew. It sounded louder. More urgent. More demanding.

"— Let me die."

"— LET ME DIE."

"— LET ME DIE."

"— No!" she returned, in a scream charged with despair and stubbornness. "I can't!"

The cycle seemed eternal, a torment without end.

She, on her knees, covered in blood. He, standing, silent.

The voice repeating the order that tore her apart.

Until, on the brink of madness, exhausted, destroyed, Hermione screamed back with everything she had, with all the strength her very soul seemed to produce:

"— I WON'T!"

And suddenly...

Silence.

Everything faded.

Everything ceased.

Everything stopped existing.

•••

Hermione woke up lying in her bed, gasping, her heart hammering in her chest. She slowly focused on the dormitory, still half-trapped in the dream—or nightmare—until she noticed her classmates looking at her, some curious, others disturbed by the screams she had apparently let out.

A perfect omen for a terrible day.

Chapter Text

It was night, and all the students were already in their beds or, at least, retired to their dormitories; even the figures in the portraits seemed to have withdrawn. Dumbledore had lost track of time once again. It wasn't the first time he found himself pacing in circles, immersed in the Penseive's memories, sifting through recollections that seemed to slip away, or revisiting Slughorn’s memory with Tom Riddle, hoping some forgotten detail would reveal itself. The frustration was constant.

Despite not having obtained the answers he sought, other matters couldn't wait. So, he summoned two of his most trusted teachers, those he considered his right-hand personnel. First, Minerva McGonagall, to whom he assigned part of a delicate task. She showed no enthusiasm, always busy with her obligations, but, upon understanding the urgency, she agreed to take responsibility.

Then came Severus Snape. Dumbledore knew the professor’s temperament well and knew dealing with him would be a completely different battle. The tension hung in the air even before he entered the room. The man walked into the office wearing the most irritated expression he could muster. Thanks to their long-standing friendship, the Headmaster could notice Snape’s shifts in mood, even when subtle—though this was not one of those times. This school year had already started difficultly, and expectations were low, so he perfectly understood Snape, even if the professor himself doubted it.

The professor approached the desk, his hands clasped in front of his body.

"Good evening, Headmaster. What fascinating news do you have to tell me? Or is this yet another one of your questionable requests?" he said in his usual dry, cutting tone.

"Good evening, Severus. I would like you to sit down."

Snape hesitated, likely considering contradicting the Headmaster or delivering a sharp provocation, but eventually conceded with an air of resignation.

"So... what insanity will it be today?" he questioned, his voice low, heavy with sarcasm.

"Severus, you know better than anyone how close we are to war," Dumbledore replied, unperturbed. "And I fear that those destined for important roles are not yet ready."

"As I recall, you yourself have been training Potter..." Snape said, his eyebrow arched, every word a mixture of challenge and skepticism.

"Yes, but we cannot expect him to shoulder everything alone." Dumbledore maintained a firm, almost didactic tone.

"Of course... and so we shall burden the others as well?" Snape retorted, quick and cutting, yet the restraint in his voice indicated that, despite the irritation, he could not deny the Headmaster's direct orders.

"Precisely." Dumbledore leaned slightly forward, his steady blue eyes fixed on him. "I need you and Minerva to provide private tutoring for Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger. They must be equal to the challenges that lie ahead."

"The answer is no."

"Severus..."

He saw Snape's jaw tighten, his face closing off even more.

"Is everything I do never enough?" the professor snapped, his voice laden with exhaustion. "You always demand more, more, and more."

"If he fails, everything you have done will have been in vain," Dumbledore replied, without raising his voice. Merely stating a fact.

Snape wrinkled his nose in disdain, an automatic reflex.

"Do not try your manipulations on me... As if it weren't enough to endure those blockheads during class hours."

"Miss Granger is no blockhead," Dumbledore interrupted gently. "And she has proven her abilities more than once. Including recently, if I recall correctly."

"Of course. Possessing more than one neuron is a commendable feat among Gryffindors," he murmured, venomously.

"Severus, this is not a negotiation." he said serenely "Choose, or the choice will be made for you."

"Let it be the less inept one. I will take Miss Granger."

"Excellent!" Dumbledore smiled, satisfied. "I am sure Minerva will know how to draw the best out of Mr. Weasley."

"Not even if she transfigured him into a sponge."

It was as exhausting as Dumbledore had predicted, but he had succeeded. He would have preferred not to resort to manipulation or authority to convince him, but Snape had not been very willing to yield. Another factor that helped was conducting the conversation as if Snape had a choice, when in truth, he had already earmarked Weasley for McGonagall, and indeed, Hermione was the better choice.

***

A few days later, Hermione had not had those dreams again, or if she had, the memory of them dissolved before she could grasp it. Still, she occasionally woke up with a tight chest, as if something had been chasing her in the dark and fled the instant she opened her eyes. The memory of the morning she woke up screaming, with all her dormitory mates looking at her, remained vivid enough to make her shudder. She hated drawing attention, especially for something she couldn't even explain. Admitting she had found Professor Snape on the verge of collapse and helped him would be strange enough; confessing she had dreamt of him... absolutely unthinkable. No one would understand what that meant. They would probably look at her with malicious insinuations or, worse, pity.

No, she wouldn't say anything. She repeated to herself that it had all passed, and she could simply move on with her life, with her nights... as if nothing had happened. It was a reasonable, even comforting thought, and it shattered the moment she was summoned to Professor McGonagall's office that afternoon. Hermione heard the news with a knot forming in her throat: like Harry, she and Ron would also receive special training. Only, in her case, it wouldn't be with Dumbledore.

It would be with Snape.

She swallowed so quickly she felt her stomach clench, as if she had swallowed a handful of ice. This could not go well. He barely tolerated her presence in the classroom; he made his contempt for her voice, her enthusiasm, her knowledge clear to everyone. So why, Merlin, why, would it be any different behind closed doors?

But her other side, stubborn and hungry for knowledge, raised its head. After all, as unbearable as he was, Snape was brilliant. Skilled. Dangerous. And if she managed, with enough effort, to penetrate the thick layer of antipathy... perhaps she could absorb something from his lessons. Even if every fibre of her being told her this wouldn't end well.

Professor McGonagall showed clear dissatisfaction at not being able to train one of her most brilliant students, saying the Headmaster himself had decided the pairings and that she regretted not being able to explain it to her personally, but he was absent from the castle that day. Not even her praises, always so rare, managed to cheer Hermione up. She even tried to feel honoured, tried to allow it to mean something... but the truth was, she only felt a bitter pang of envy for Ron, who would have McGonagall as his mentor.

As she walked back to the common room, she decided she would go to bed early. Perhaps sleep would help her put everything in its place. And, with luck, keep certain presences... distant. She made the silent plea, like one who avoids articulating something they fear attracting.

The next day, she received, via a Slytherin who barely met her eye, a message from Snape: she was to be in his office after dinner, at eight o'clock. When the time came, the corridors were empty. The only sound was the echo of her own footsteps against the stone floor. She realized, with annoyance, that at times her steps slowed, as if something inside her was trying to hold her back, avoid that path.

Ridiculous.

She straightened her posture and forced her pace to quicken. She would give Snape no reason to punish her; it would be absurd to allow... whatever it was... to influence her self-control.

She finally arrived at her destination. When she reached out to knock, the door opened immediately, as if he knew the exact moment of her arrival. The classroom was empty, with no desks or chairs scattered around, and the lighting was slightly dimmed, enough to distinguish every detail effortlessly, but making the space feel more private, almost confidential. Hermione entered slowly, her eyes sweeping the contours of the room until they finally fixed on Snape, standing by the desk, as if he had been waiting for her longer than necessary.

"Good evening, sir," she preemptively greeted him before receiving complaints even for not saluting him at the correct time.

Snape calmly took out a pocket watch, checked the time, and put it away with the same irritating slowness. Only then did he straighten his posture and, in his usual tone, muttered:

"If you think you will impress me with your punctuality, Granger, you are mistaken."

The door closed behind her with a muffled snap, loud enough to make her hold her breath for a second.

"No, sir. I merely appreciate punctuality," she replied, overly polite, overly careful, trying to avoid any spark of friction right at the start... even though a dark discomfort was already brushing the back of her neck, signalling it wouldn't help much.

Questions began piling up in her mind with uncomfortable speed; why was the room so dim? Why did he need to be so... unpleasant... so irritatingly himself?

And, worse, why was this affecting her more than it should?

"I can hear your gears grinding from here..." Snape scoffed, his voice low and sharp. "A record, actually, keeping your mouth shut for so long."

"The lighting..." she said, glancing around the room. "Is there a specific reason?"

He gave a short, disdainful laugh and stepped back a few paces. He opened up the space around her like one delimiting a board.

"Does the know-it-all have no guess?"

Her heart leaped in her chest; this sounded dangerously close to a setup.

"Would it be to increase the difficulty in some duelling context?" she ventured, feeling anticipation coil at the base of her spine.

"I expected an assertive answer. Not a poorly constructed question."

"And I expected some context as to what you plan to do in this lesson," she retorted, her voice firmer than she intended, "not a riddle where every answer is born wrong."

In the next instant, he was too close, so near that the air between them seemed to shrink. Leaning slightly over her, Snape inhaled the air as if her scent were a piece of information to be evaluated. His black eyes glinted with an almost fierce intensity.

"Do not mistake me for your little Gryffindor friends, Miss Granger." His voice grazed her skin like a warning. "It would be a pity to tarnish an almost immaculate record with a detention."

The proximity ignited a shiver that ran the length of her spine. Fear, she tried to decree. It could only be fear.

But... the other signs of fear didn't come. No ice in her stomach, no urge to back away, no impulse to raise her wand. Just that electrical discharge, that absurd awareness of his body so near.

And it was only then, too late, that she realised she was staring back at him, her chin slightly raised as if daring him to come one step closer. Her breathing sped up against her will. She needed to think. She needed to regain her senses.

More time with him? Merlin, no. The last thing she needed was a detention. The training was bad enough.

She lowered her eyes, allowing silence to answer for her.

It took only a few seconds before he stepped away, but they were long enough for Hermione to notice a slight change in his breathing, almost imperceptible, but real. The realization brought her an unexpected thread of satisfaction: she had managed to annoy him. Only slightly, but enough.

"Very well," Snape said, already distant again, his voice resuming its usual coldness. "I presume you are familiar with defensive spells."

"Yes, sir," she answered. The ensuing silence forced her to continue: "Defensive spells are enchantments intended to neutralize, block, or redirect magical threats before they cause harm. They operate by creating protective barriers, interrupting the spe—"

"There is no need to recite the Fifth Year Spell Book, Granger," he cut in, dryly. "I have read it."

His wand slid from his sleeve to his hand with a silent, calculated movement. He straightened up, occupying the space firmly, almost as if every inch of the room obeyed his will.

"We will begin with defensive practice," he declared. "You will demonstrate mastery of non-verbal spells... and reflexes to match."

Hermione nodded, pulling out her wand with fingers she willed not to tremble. She inhaled slowly, trying to contain the rising anxiety. Snape would find fault; she already knew that. But she wouldn't voluntarily give him ammunition.

His gaze fell upon her like a weight.

"Posture, Granger," he warned, in a tone that sounded almost insulted. "Feet firmly on the ground. Prepare yourself."

Her stomach clenched. This was not a lesson; it was a challenge.

Suddenly, a spell of red sparks sliced through the air toward her. Hermione reacted purely on reflex, raising a non-verbal Protego firm enough to dissipate the impact. A brief wave of satisfaction ran through her chest, but she didn't have time to appreciate it. Snape, impassive, moving only his wrist and sleeve, launched another attack. And another. And another.

"If this is what you consider fast, Miss Granger, I suggest you review your priorities."

Indignation hit her like a jet of cold water. How could he say that? She was fast—she was blocking everything, she was keeping up. A deep crease was already forming between her eyebrows when, for just a thousandth of a second of distraction, her Protego came a moment too late. The force of the impact made her stagger a step backward.

The attacks ceased.

Snape approached in absolute silence. He shook his head, disapproving of her as if she were a poorly solved equation. And then he began to circle her, slow, calculated, as if analyzing every detail of her posture. The sensation of being measured, classified—and judged—made her skin crawl.

"Focus, Granger," he murmured.

The cold tip of his wand touched her back. Hermione immediately straightened, though the point of the touch remained warm, burning beneath her skin like an intrusive reminder.

"You need to ensure the Chosen One survives."

The tip of the wand slid to the back of her knee, pressing just enough to force her to adjust her balance, and she obeyed, perhaps too quickly, feeling her breath catch in her throat.

That proximity, the touches, the mordant and unnecessary comment... everything made her heart pound in her ears and her stomach churn. Her breathing was already accelerated from the combat effort, but now... now it seemed to escape through her teeth, ragged, impossible to control.

He was so... unbearable. So deliberately despicable. Talking as if she were merely an extension of Harry Potter, an accessory, something disposable—as if Harry couldn't defend himself. The scorn burned in her chest, and she was about to bite back, earn a detention, an entire week if necessary... when the cold tip of his wand gently touched beneath her chin.

Her face lifted involuntarily.

And she hated him for it.

The gesture was quick. But it seemed to linger. It seemed too close, too intimate for something that was surely nothing more than a... technical correction. Academic. An impersonal move. Or so it should have been.

Her face flushed, hot and irritated.

Snape remained there, very close, almost suffocating her with his presence. Then he indicated the floor, her feet, with a slight nod.

"Keep your feet firmly on the ground," he said, his voice low, firm. "In a fight, if you fell, what do you think your opponent would do next? Help you up and pat your head?"

The anger rushed back like a blow: because he was right.

Because she had been distracted.

Because her last block had been too late.

She wouldn't repeat it.

"You are right, sir. I will dedicate myself more."

She planted her feet, grounding them on the floor as if she could expel every trace of hesitation.

The lesson continued in that same hostile, cutting atmosphere: Snape attacking, she defending, trying to keep up with a cadence he intentionally altered just to catch her off guard. Each spell required her to swallow her anxiety, keep her feet firm, breathe deep—do not scatter, do not allow herself to waver.

Snape didn't limit himself to standing still; he moved across the room with long, silent strides, changing the angle of his attacks unpredictably. It was like trying to keep up with a blindfolded storm.

Until, in a moment of delay, a single, minuscule lapse in focus, her non-verbal Protego failed. The impact hit her full on, and she was thrown several feet back before collapsing onto the stone floor. By the force used, she concluded, dazed, it must have been an Impedimenta.

Snape remained exactly where he was, unmoving, arms crossed, watching her as if evaluating how long it would take her to recover. He offered no help. He made no move to approach. He just waited, and the silent expectation was worse than any reprimand. Hermione got up as quickly as she could, straightening her robes with what dignity remained. She wouldn't lie on the floor lamenting. Not in front of him.

Snape didn't even wait for her to fully catch her breath.

"We are done for today, Granger," he said, already turning toward his desk. "It seems we have accumulated a good arsenal of basic errors."

The tone was cutting, definitive, as if this lesson had been a waste of time... and as if he had expected exactly this from her. Hermione's eyes burned at the blatant lie. Basic errors? She had held off a deluge of attacks, executed every move exactly as he instructed... She swallowed hard, forcing her breathing to stabilize. She needed to remain calm. She was so close. She would end the lesson without losing points and, with luck, without detention. She just needed to bid him good evening and leave.

"If you say so, sir... Am I dismissed?" The voice came out polished, but the thread of irony was impossible to completely disguise.

Snape stared at her for a moment longer than necessary, as if calculating what the ideal punishment for that minimal slip of insolence would be.

"You are. You may go," he finally said.

She took a few steps toward the door when his voice cut the air.

"Granger?"

Hermione turned cautiously.

Snape adjusted the sleeves of his coat, his gaze narrow and unforgiving.

"On your rounds tonight... try not to save anyone who did not ask you to."

Her hands immediately clenched into fists, the blood boiling beneath her skin.

"Rest assured, sir. I will not make that mistake again."

She raised her chin in a silent gesture of defiance and left the room before she was condemned to detentions until the end of the century. She walked away with the uncomfortable feeling that Snape had not just tested her magic, but her composure.