The Child of the Seventh Month

19. The Man Responsible

Harry sat in the Slytherin common room, staring blankly into the fireplace. The flames sparked and danced, casting long shadows around the empty room. The boy's mind was racing, his stomach twisting in knots. The thought that the last conversation he'd had with Hermione was an argument was unbearable.

Hermione, his best friend, petrified in the school bathroom. Petrified because she had wanted to cry on her own after her conversation with Harry. Petrified because of Harry, and the stupid, childish way he had behaved. It was so absurd that Harry wanted to laugh.

It had been hours, and he still felt like he was in shock. Hermione had been taken to the hospital wing immediately. The teachers had been called, and they had asked him several questions, which he had answered to the best of his abilities, then they had sent him back to his dormitory. But unable to fall asleep, Harry had gone to the common room where he could sit in silence, watching the fire. And that was how the head of his house found him.

"I see that you're still up, Potter."

Harry's head jerked in the direction of the voice, his eyes narrowing as he saw Snape's silhouette in the doorway. The man stood, his tall frame looming menacingly, the candlelight making him look even paler than usual.

"Do you not require sleep, or are you merely unable to shut your brain off long enough to attempt it?"

Harry's mouth opened in protest, but the words stuck in his throat. He closed his mouth and looked down, fiddling with the edge of his pajama shirt.

Snape moved closer, looking so strange in his casual robes and without his customary sneer. Harry swallowed, feeling familiar dislike resurface instantly despite his guilt and uneasiness. 

"I don't suppose you had anything to do with Granger's unfortunate situation," Snape said.

Harry looked up sharply. "No!”

Snape studied him for a moment, his dark eyes boring into him. "Hmm," he mused, taking a step closer. "I suppose we should count ourselves fortunate, then."

Harry's face twisted in confusion.

"That the monster's victims remain so conveniently isolated," Snape added. "It makes the rest of us feel quite safe, doesn't it?"

Harry looked away, frowning. “Can't you stop it?”

“Stop what?”

“Pretending,” he said bitterly. “Why Hermione? She's not like the rest of them.”

Snape narrowed his eyes. "Not like the rest of what, Potter?"

"You know what I mean," said Harry, glaring at him.

"Perhaps," said Snape, his voice icy. "But I find myself curious. I would like to hear you say it."

Harry hesitated, his chest tightening. Snape was clearly baiting him, but Harry couldn't seem to help himself.

"Well, the heir's been attacking muggle-borns," he began slowly.

"Ah, yes. Go on. What ludicrous ideas have you gotten into your head now, Potter?"

Harry scowled. "I mean... well, Hermione's a muggle-born, and she's my friend, and... and she's not like everyone else."

Snape's expression remained carefully neutral.

"So, the heir shouldn't hurt her," said Harry. "It wouldn't be... fair."

"Fair," Snape repeated, his lip curling. “So naive, Potter. Your precious friend is no better than any other muggle-born. What a surprise that she would be next on the heir's list. Almost like the heir doesn't care about your personal preferences, hmm?”