Chapter Text
Professor McGonagall’s tight smile and feeble reassurances that everything would work itself out did nothing to loosen the dragon-sized knot of anxiety twisting in Hermione’s stomach. After a compassionate reminder to come to her anytime, the Headmistress excused herself, leaving Hermione with a million questions buzzing in her brain, her mind caught somewhere between denial and disbelief.
She remained in the library, weary but determined, tearing through the shelves for anything she could find regarding soul magic. She was less than a chapter into the most promising text when she felt it—a faint, almost imperceptible ripple across her senses—like a shadow that might be listening. She wondered if she were imagining Snape or if he were there in her mind, quiet but inescapable, crouched in the dark and poised to break through.
She clutched her book tighter, her fingers digging into the thick binding as though it might keep her grounded. What if he could sense her spiralling, her mind an open book for his perusal? What if, across the distance, he could get in and witness every vulnerable moment? What if he could hear her even now?
How likely was it that they were, in fact, soulmates?
The Theory of Soulmate Bonds speculated that soulmates were those whose magical essences resonated uniquely and powerfully with each other, creating a profound bond—not necessarily romantic or sexual in nature— that often resulted in rare shared powers or enhanced abilities.
That simple fact meant she was already feeling better about telling the boys and less nervous about seeing Snape in class on Monday. And, she reminded herself, maybe Professor Snape was right, this was all the result of spell damage, and it would wear off.
And even if they weren’t soulmates, what if Voldemort—or his Death Eaters—learned of a connection between Snape and a Muggleborn who happened to be close to Harry Potter? What would they do to Snape to get to Harry? She shivered, and a new question clawed its way into her mind—would Snape use this? Use her?
She clutched one hand to her chest as if she could still her racing heart. She wanted to believe that he wouldn’t exploit… whatever this was. Maybe it was naïve to think he wouldn’t. It was difficult to reconcile the Snape who treated her—and especially Harry—like rubbish with the Snape who had been honourable and almost kind earlier in the morning. Still, that she knew nothing about him as a person—outside of his role as a professor and an Order Spy—was disquieting. What did it mean if she was inextricably linked to Professor Snape?
She exhaled sharply, brushing an unruly curl from her face. Was she seriously jumping to conclusions already? It didn’t do much good to put the carriage before the thestral.
And then came the most important question: What would she tell the boys?
Over the years, Harry had come to her with tales that sounded utterly mad—being stalked by a House Elf, visions of Voldemort’s plans, hearing voices. Every time, she’d listened, and he’d trusted her to help him make sense of it. And now, here she was, ready to confess something that felt equally unthinkable.
“She’s doing it again, mate,” Ron muttered.
“Give her a shake, yeah?” suggested Harry.
Their voices drifted into her awareness, distorted by the thudding of her pounding heart. There were simply too many items on her list of Things She Needed to Tell the Boys. She had no idea where to start, or what to say, or how much to say. She didn’t dare turn toward them, convinced her dread would register on her face.
“Not a chance!” Ron exclaimed. “Tried that once, got slapped for my troubles.”
“Right,” Harry gave a light chuckle. “Twice, wasn’t it?”
“I swear it still hurts when I smile,” insisted Ron. She felt his index finger poke lightly into her shoulder. “Psst, ‘Mione,” he said in a loud whisper.
“Hermione. You okay?” Harry asked.
She blinked to clear her fuzzy vision, and the boys’ faces swam into view. They hovered over her chair—from a safe distance lest she smack them for interrupting her studies–and her chest tightened with guilt for worrying them.
“Sorry,” she said, shaking her head as if it would clear the fog clouding her brain. She forced her lips into a tired smile, thankful her concealment charms still held on Sirius’ tomes about soulmates.
“You missed breakfast,” observed Ron. “And you don’t usually zone out unless you’re revising for exams. So what’s goin’ on?” He took a seat on a ratty leather chair opposite hers. It was heartening to hear the concern in his voice. It had taken them both a while to realise they could rebuild their friendship after she hurt his pride and he hurt hers. Harry, less anxious now that his best friends were getting along, sat next to Ron and cast a Muffliato. Their chairs formed a small triangle tucked between two tall bookshelves.
“Is this about Snape?” Harry asked, not bothering to hide the contempt in his voice. “Sirius said something happened last night.”
Of course, he did. And both McGonagall and Snape had left Hermione here to face the music alone.
“No,” Hermione replied automatically, shaking her head.
Her best friend could be oblivious at times, but right now, she’d bet good Galleons that his bright green eyes could see right through her. A glance at Ron confirmed that he was equally unimpressed with her answer. He tilted his head as if to say, “Nice try.”
“Well, kind of,” she admitted. Ron snorted, and Harry raised his brows.
“Fine, yes,” she grumbled the weak confession, lowering her head into her hands.
Ron leaned forward in his chair, clenching his hands into fists. Harry’s gaze narrowed dangerously.
“What did he do?” demanded Ron through clenched teeth.
“Snape didn’t do anything!”
Hermione stood to pace as her pulse beat a nervous rhythm. Harry’s silent disapproval and wounded frown burned more than anger ever could. She hated to speak poorly of Sirius–Harry revered him, and she was a guest in his home—but she wouldn’t let Professor Snape take the blame.
She gathered her resolve and faced them. “I need to tell you both something,” she declared, her voice carrying a fragile edge she hated hearing. She looked back and forth between her best friends. “I’ll need a wand oath.”
“A wand oath?” Ron echoed, his brows rising to his hairline. “What for?”
A flicker of concern crossed Harry's face. He shifted uneasily, his eyes lingering on her for a moment longer than usual as though trying to piece something together that didn’t quite add up. They’d never asked one another for an oath—not even when they decided what they would and wouldn’t share with Ginny, Lavender, and the others.
Hermione swallowed hard. “I need you to promise that what I’m about to tell you won’t leave this room—no matter how it sounds.” She instinctively held her breath, hoping they would take her seriously even as she knew she couldn't tell them everything.
She cast the strongest privacy charms she knew and swore the boys to secrecy.
They wouldn't like this any more than she did.
*
It sounded ridiculous when she told the story out loud—Sirius’ drunken curse, Snape’s unusual Protego, their unexpected shared thoughts, and finally, McGonagall’s memory. She collapsed into her chair when she finished, a weight lifted by explaining what she could. While she by no means thought best friends needed to tell one another everything, she didn’t like keeping the important things from Harry and Ron, especially because she expected their honesty in return.
Ron sat with his mouth gaping while Harry’s face twisted into something between disgust and disbelief. In retrospect, it may have been easier to ask the Headmistress if they might borrow the pensieve.
She didn't even mention Voldemort’s proclivity for sexual compulsion curses or the specific counter to the unusual shield. It seemed a gross invasion of Snape’s privacy—and her own—to tell the boys anything more.
When Ron finally spoke, he asked a question quite similar to the one Hermione couldn’t stop asking herself.
“Are you saying Sirius may have saddled you with the Greasy Git for life ?” His voice grew louder, and his cheeks turned a bright shade of red.
“Ronald!” she scolded, mostly out of habit. An uncomfortable lump formed in her throat. The realisation struck that Snape likely had a similar thought about her. She could almost hear his voice. Stuck with the insufferable know-it-all. His dark eyes would narrow, growing colder and sharper. It was logical that he’d be angry. After everything she’d stumbled into, she had no doubt he was livid.
“It might wear off!” insisted Harry, his expression wavering between nervous and protective. “Right, Hermione?”
“Yes. It could. Hypothetically,” she replied. “I mean, like I explained, we don’t have soul bands. That's why Professor McGonagall thinks it’s some kind of spell damage. Possibly.”
“I don’t know anything about soul magic, but I don’t like it,” Ron sniffed, surging to his feet and crossing his arms over his chest.
She was back on her feet, facing him and folding her arms as well. “I don’t like it, either!” she insisted.
“Snape rubs shoulders with Death Eaters—-” he continued.
“For the Order—” she interrupted with an exaggerated eye roll.
“And now he’s got a one-way ticket into your brain!”
That stopped Hermione short. She shared the same fear.
“Just think of what he could find, Hermione.” Ron softened his voice, his eyes serious and intent on hers. “You know, the ‘you-know-whats,’” he whispered.
Harry flinched, and Hermione’s fingers twisted nervously around the edges of her sleeves. She hadn’t even thought of them. She hadn’t even considered them. The idea was sharp and uncomfortable, and she pressed her hand to her forehead, willing the sinking feeling of utter foolishness to dissipate. It made her feel small, every instinct screaming that she should have thought of this much sooner.
“This could be dangerous,” Harry warned, anger sharpening his voice. His words hit her hard because they were true and because she didn't know what to do about any of it.
“I wasn’t thinking about them,” she explained, feeling defensive and somehow guilty. “I don’t think he, you know, gleaned that information from my mind or anything.”
“That doesn’t mean he won’t,” Ron interjected.
“Hermione,” sighed Harry. “Dumbledore told me for a reason; he told me to trust you and Ron. He didn’t say anything about trusting Snape.. .”
Harry trailed off as he usually did when discussing Dumbledore. His love and respect for the Headmaster seemed tangled up with grief—and maybe, she thought, frustration regarding their ill-defined task to destroy the Horcruxes.
Ron hovered by the window, asking his question to the street outside. “What are we going to do about this?”
Hermione opened her mouth and found no words.
“I don’t think we can do anything, Ron,” said Harry, shaking his head.
Ron’s gaze snapped to hers, demanding she suggest something, anything.
“I suppose Harry could teach me to Occlude,” conceded Hermione.
It wasn’t an appealing idea, really, having Harry rummaging around in her thoughts. If he saw…. she could never let him see Snape. Or Viktor. Or her daydreams from third year when she’d thought she might fancy Harry. And it would be best if he didn’t see the terribly vindictive spells she’d considered casting on Lavender not long ago.
Harry rubbed his temples, the action knocking his glasses askew. “Hermione, that’s like me asking you for flying lessons. You know I’m rubbish at Occlumency!”
“How do you keep Moldy out, Harry? Teach Hermione that, yeah?” urged Ron.
“I don't know,” Harry said, running his hands through his hair and leaving it more spiky than usual. “I definitely don’t know how to Occlude him. After the Ministry, I think it hurts him, ya know, when I think of people I love.”
“That's it, Hermione!” Ron exclaimed with a grin. “Think of Harry and me, and the same principle should work with Snape.”
Hermione rolled her eyes but she couldn't help a small smile. “I love you both, but I do have other things to think about—-”
She was midsentence when her ears began to ring, and her mind lurched forward. She grasped the arms of her chair, afraid she would fall as the world shifted. The library dissolved, and her perspective slid into what felt like a bad dream. The vision blurred at the edges, inky black swirls filling the air as if she’d dunked her head into a pensieve.
She sat at a long, polished table with dozens of black-robed figures.
Something cold and dark coiled in Hermione’s gut, and her immediate instinct was to flee. She summoned her wand, determined to apparate away. It ignored her call.
She glanced at her lap to find long, pale, familiar fingers resting on black-clad thighs. Her mind screamed that this wasn’t her body. She wanted to pull away, but there was nowhere to go. Her senses flared, blending with the fear freezing her in place. Her senses confirmed that Snape, too, wanted nothing more than to escape, but he couldn’t so much as blink if he didn’t want to call attention to himself.
When she heard the impossibly loud hiss, she didn’t want him to look, but he forced them to do so. In the centre of the vast table slithered a monstrous snake, its scales shimmering in green and gold as it moved forward. Its massive head loomed larger and larger, its fangs bared as venom dripped from its opening maw. The air grew thick with terror. It struck, sinking its teeth into a twisted pile of strewn limbs.
The pile screamed.
Hermione recoiled, a scream caught in her throat. Snape clamped his jaw shut, his teeth clacking together painfully. Hermione stared at the grotesque scene while those around her cheered and pounded their fists on the table.
Crimson red blood soaked into a dirty white dress and seeped into tangled blonde hair. The snake’s jaw unhinged a second time, and it struck again, tearing at the shape with a sickening chomp. More cheers rang in Snape’s ears as raw, stomach-churning fear brought bile from his stomach to his throat. Foreign emotions surged across Hermione’s nerves. Helplessness. Rage. Sorrow. Fear. And for one unbearable second, the crushing weight of shame.
As abruptly as she arrived, a barrier slammed down, forcefully severing the connection and flinging her back into the library. She gasped for breath, sitting up and brushing tears from her eyes with shaking hands.
The truth was as terrifying as the vision. The fragile thread connecting Hermione to her potions professor still stretched between them, like a spider web clinging with surprising persistence. She fought to push away the images—the masked figures, the snake, and the mangled, motionless woman.
When her tears slowed, she opened her eyes to find the boys hovering over her again, blue and green eyes blinking down at her. Hermione registered their voices as though from underwater, the blood rushing in her ears making each word sound muffled and distant.
“Blimey.” She looked up to find Ron wringing his hands.
“What the hell, Hermione?” Harry asked, more worried than angry.
“That was, like, Trelawney-level mental right there,” Ron said. “Where were you? It was like that time you were petrified!”
She couldn’t be sure, but it wasn’t a stretch to assume she was in one of Snape’s memories. Or, maybe he was asleep, and she was sucked into his nightmare. She wanted to fall into the boys’ arms and have a long cry, but it seemed selfish to be so absorbed in her own thoughts when someone else had lost their life.
“I saw…” Attempting to speak brought a choked sob.
Ron kneeled next to her chair, looking both concerned and helpless. "You’re saying you saw something?" His voice cracked slightly. “Like a vision?”
"I—I don't know," she stammered. "It was like I was there. Like I was in a memory or a nightmare, but it wasn’t mine. I couldn’t— I couldn’t stop it. I—" Hermione took a deep breath, trying to organise her thoughts. The hiss, the scream—they would haunt her.
“It was all inky and black— blurry, you know, like in a pensive. I was sitting at a long dining table with a group of masked figures, and the snake… the snake…” The words fought to stay safely unsaid. “It killed a woman,” she whispered. Harry exchanged an uneasy glance with Ron. She felt like she was wading through something she didn’t understand.
“I couldn’t see her face. I couldn’t get out. It was like being trapped in Snape’s head!" She pressed her hands to her forehead, eyes squeezing shut as if she could block the images out.
Harry knelt as well, putting a hand on her shoulder. His eyes were wide, his voice soft but tinged with something darker—fear, maybe. "You’re saying you were Snape?”
She nodded slowly. Unlike McGonagall’s pensieve memory, this happened in Hermione’s mind and from Snape’s point of view. It was more disconcerting than time travel.
“Hermione, remember when Ron’s dad got bit?” Hermione nodded, recalling quite clearly but not sure what point Harry was trying to make.
“I was the snake,” Harry said, and he gave a visible shudder. Her confusion must have shown on her face, because Harry gestured to his scar.
Ron wrinkled his nose. “You’re saying your soul is connected to the snake?”
“I’m saying I’m connected to You-Know-Who,” said Harry. “I reckon there’s no reason I should be connected to his pet snake unless he’s also somehow connected with it.”
Hermione’s mind churned as the three friends sat quietly for a time. There was nothing she liked worse than half-formed conclusions and speculation, and that’s all she had.
“I think if he can put a piece of his soul in a diary, he can probably put one in a snake,” she concluded carefully.
Ron cleared his throat, and she knew from the uncertain look in his eyes that he was about to direct them into a new minefield. “Maybe it’s time we tell McGonagall. I don’t reckon we can find them on our own. Honestly, it could take years! Now, we’ve got Harry connected to Moldy and a snake and Hermione connected to Snape, and we won’t have much freedom to look for Horcruxes until the summer hols—”
“We've been over this, Ron,” argued Harry. “We’d be putting McGonagall in danger!”
“She - we - are already in danger!” Hermione exclaimed. She and Ron were much more inclined to “trust the adults” than Harry—which she understood on more than one level–but she thought him too rigid when it came to McGonagall. “How long do you think Vol– He – will let her run Hogwarts?”
Ron scoffed, though he didn’t disagree. “Yeah, he probably wants his favourite Death Eater in charge.” Hermione flinched, but she couldn’t argue. Better him than Bellatrix.
Harry looked like he often did as of late—like he was both angry and helpless. Most likely, he was angry because he felt helpless. “If we tell McGonagall, she’ll tell Snape,” Harry declared, his tone thick with disapproval and making it clear his stance hadn’t changed since they last grappled with this topic.
Ron gave Hermione a guarded look before addressing Harry. “Even if we don’t tell her, mate, you could ask about Dumbledore’s memories. Maybe there were more he meant to show you, you know, before…” Ron licked his lips rather than finishing his thought. They both knew Harry would prefer not to talk about his final lesson with the Headmaster. He closed down every time the topic arose, and Hermione found herself appreciating Ron’s tact, given the circumstances.
“At least the diary is taken care of,” Ron added.
Harry let out a frustrated huff. “We don’t know that there are six plus Vol– him; that’s just Dumbledore’s theory.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “And we have no idea how to destroy them.”
They’d been over this before, and the conversation always ended with the same disappointing conclusions—they didn’t have enough information, they didn’t know where to find it, and they didn’t agree about asking for help.
The only person they knew who had destroyed a Horcrux was, ironically, Harry.
It hit her like a bludger to the head.
“Unless…” Hermione stood too quickly, steadying herself by grasping onto Harry’s arm.
“Unless what?”
“Unless we can get our hands on more basilisk fangs.” She bit down on her lip, studying Harry’s reaction. His eyes grew wide, and he swallowed audibly.
“That’s brilliant, Hermione!” smiled Ron. Slowly, his smile ran away from his face and he groaned. “Four-year-old snake corpse. Lovely.”
“I haven’t found anything helpful about destroying Horcruxes,” she confessed. “It might be worth a look. Maybe Dobby can help?”
Harry gave a small smile at the mention of the unruly elf. “Maybe. Either way, we should check. Though, Moldy’s snake is huge. I can’t imagine anyone stabbing it with a fang and living to tell about it.”
“I’ll see if I can find a book on the potency of basilisk venom,” Hermione said. “Hopefully, the other Horcruxes won’t be animals.”
“Hopefully, basilisk venom has a long shelf-life,” Ron mused.
A creek of a door and the clack of heavy heels on the wooden floor interrupted their planning, yet the panic Hermione anticipated didn’t come. Magic that wasn’t her own slid over her nerves, familiar in both taste and texture, like taking a sip of red wine and noting the tannins on her tongue.
Miss Granger.
A shadow of billowing robes flashed across the nearby wall, and Snape’s steps became softer as he moved from the wood floor onto the area rug.
Professor.
She quickly cancelled their privacy charms as he rounded the corner. He looked down his long nose at the three students, his eyes blank and his lips thin. His skin looked almost translucent in the library’s dim light, his cheeks hallowed by fatigue. He’d not been gone long, and the tingling along her spine said the reason for his visit wasn’t good news.
“Miss Granger, if I may have a word.” His voice came low and clipped, and he tilted his head a centimetre as he addressed her. Hermione nodded dumbly, taking a step forward until Harry and Ron jumped to action, blocking her path.
Ron drew himself up to his full height, standing eye-to-eye with Professor Snape. Harry, only an inch or two shorter, stood at Ron’s side. At least neither had drawn their wands.
“She’s been through enough today, don’t you think?” Ron asked, his voice heavy with disgust that made Hermione flinch.
Harry folded his arms, imitating Professor Snape’s posture. “Maybe it can wait?” he asked, his tone equally impolite.
Hermione felt a wave of love for her friends, even if their protectiveness was misdirected. She didn’t know if she had enough mental energy to deal with Snape right now, but she couldn’t ignore the gnawing need to understand what she’d seen.
Snape’s eyes flicked back to hers. “I believe Miss Granger can decide for herself.”
She took a steadying breath. “We’ll just be in the kitchen,” she said, patting Ron’s arm and giving Harry a reassuring look. She’d had enough excitement in the library for one day. “I’ll be right back.”
*
She followed Snape and his swirling robes down the stairwell, steeling herself and clamping down on the alarm curling in her chest. The simple truth about Snape—at least in the classroom—was that the quieter he was, the angrier he was.
He didn’t say a word, even when he sat at the long kitchen table and gestured for her to sit across from him. Mrs. Weasley had already scrubbed the counters clean, and Hermione’s stomach grumbled at the lingering smell of bacon grease.
She couldn’t believe he came back. Though, she supposed he didn’t care for her trespassing on his memories—not that she had any control of that. The closed look on his face made her heart squeeze. How many times had he had to relive that vision? It dawned on her only now that he likely knew the woman.
He didn’t seem inclined to yell at her, however. In fact, he stared at the table, his pale face shrouded by his lank hair. When had he last eaten? From the looks of him, he might collapse at any moment.
When the seconds continued to tick by, she took a chance and left the table, preparing a simple meal of tea, eggs, toast, and Mrs. Weasley’s homemade blackberry jam. She knew by now that Snape would speak when he wanted to and not before.
And he didn’t speak until she placed the small breakfast before him, offering a formal Thank you in her mind rather than aloud. He ate with slow, robotic movements while she served herself.
The quiet stretched as they sipped their tea, and the events of the early morning felt distant and unimportant. She had to bite her tongue so as not to speak first. He wouldn't want pity or sympathy, and he wouldn’t be here unless it was important.
When Snape finally looked up from his teacup, his dark eyes were as unreadable as ever.
“Were you trying to breach my defences?” he asked quietly.
“No!” scoffed Hermione; she would be insulted if the thought hadn’t crossed her mind more than once—not that she would have.
“I didn't think so,” he sighed, and just like that her panic subsided, like a vice loosening from her around her lungs. “I'm sorry you had to see that.”
She blinked, caught off guard. “I’m sorry you had to witness it,” said Hermione, hoping her sincerity showed in her eyes. “Is that why you came back? Was it a memory? A nightmare?”
“I’m not sure,” he said, rubbing his chin absently. “I think I was somewhere between asleep and awake. It took me a while to push you out.”
“I’m so—” she started…
“Don’t,” he commanded, holding up one hand.
“Sorry,” she whispered.
Snape let out a long sigh. “ I’m sure you’re up to your eyeballs in books about soul magic,” his lips turned down, “but it occurred to me that you would prefer our memories stay private?”
She nodded.
“Your priorities should be, in this order: keeping Potter safe, mastering the Wolfsbane, and this.” He moved a small text from his robes and passed it across the table. It wasn’t new, but it was in excellent condition, bound in black and titled with embrosed script.
Mind Over Magic: The Art of Occlumency
“You need to strengthen your… likely nonexistent shields. Mastering the basics can take months, so I demand you don’t try to learn this by Monday. Is that clear?”
“Yes. Thank you,” she replied, her voice unsteady. She accepted the book and examined the inside cover. She couldn’t help the rush of excitement that swept over her. A book from Snape?
“And Granger?”
“Yes?” Her tired eyes met his.
Snape gave her a long look, then pushed back his chair. “Do try not to damage my book. The consequences will be… most unpleasant.”
She was almost offended, but then again… maybe a tiny spark glinted in his eye. She could have imagined it, because his jaw shifted and he straightened the sleeves of his robes as he stood. She offered a smile and a nod.
“It is likely that I will require another potion at some point between midnight and dawn,” he said.
She couldn’t imagine how much it hurt his pride to say it, and the thought made her feel a strange mix of empathy and guilt. “I’ll store it down in the lab this time.”
“Wise,” he drawled, sending their dirty dishes to scrub in the sink before making his way to the back door.
Wherever he was going next, she hoped he could sleep. “I’m sorry you have to go, Professor. There’s more Calming Draught and Dreamless Sleep in the potion cabinet.”
“I’m well-stocked at Hogwarts, thank you,” he murmured. With that, he turned, running straight into Kreacher.
“Excuse me, Master of Potions,” Kreacher said, offering Snape a low bow. Then his eyes landed on Hermione. “Missy Mudblood,” he grumbled, shooting her a glare.
“Kreacher!” snapped Snape. “You will show respect, or I will personally make you pay for your insolence.” Unexpected warmth flooded Hermione’s chest. No matter how many awful things he’d said in the past, his forceful words defending her made her stomach do a little flip.
Kreacher flinched at the harshness of Snape’s voice, his body jerking and his ears flattening. His old, gnarled hands trembled, and he dropped a glinting object to the floor. It landed with a loud thud.
The change hit her like whiplash, the warmth in her chest turning into a cold wall of doubt, like she'd come face to face with a Dementor.
Snape seemed equally weary of the object, his wand trained on it.
The universe wasn’t done messing with Hermione Granger today because as Kreacher bent to retrieve his treasure, Harry and Ron burst through the door, misinterpreting Snape’s raised wand and Kreacher's bent form.
Harry cast before her wand was in her hand. “Protego!” he yelled.
An explosion of light followed, knocking her off balance. She caught the edge of the kitchen table, managing not to fall. The light faded, and the room was doused in darkness.
She cast a floating Bluebell flame, already knowing what she would find but hoping she was mistaken.
Sure enough, Snape’s prone body was sprawled next to her on the kitchen floor, his face tight with anger and maybe a flicker of resignation. His voice sounded in her mind as he pushed himself up to sit and cast a Revelio.
The familiar, shimmering shield materialized around them.
Bloody Potter!
Hermione jumped at the sound of Snape’s voice ringing in her ears, but she found herself nodding. If Harry James Potter wasn’t her best friend, she might seriously curse him for this and save Voldemort the trouble.