Witch Hunt

3

She was pacing again. She had been pacing for the last hour, occasionally stopping when she thought she had an idea on how to get out of the blasted arranged marriage. She would write out her plan on a spare bit of parchment to work out details, though when read over, she realised it was cockamamie.

Sighing, she threw herself onto the bed, hiding her face in her hands. "I have no choice." She mumbled to herself.

From behind her hands, she heard someone clear their throat. Peeking between her fingers, Hermione saw Harry at the door, leaning against the jamb. "Ron is right," he stated, eyeing her with what she could only refer to as pity. "You should run."

The brightest witch of her age rolled her eyes as she sat up. "It's so cowardly, Harry. I can't stand it." She replied, running a hand through her hair. "It's not like me to give up so easily."

The young man she grew up with sat next to her on the bed, patting her back in an attempt to comfort her. "It's Snape. He's horrible. You don't want to be married to him. It was bad enough having him as a teacher, can you imagine living with him?"

Hermione shivered, briefly imagining the worst. The image of being berated as he towered over her came to her. He could be frightening when it suited him. The tall, dark man they had grown up knowing as Hogwarts' very own villain.

Yet, his letters had proved otherwise. He was so careful in his writing. So attentive and interested in what she had to say. Surely, it was all a ploy to lure her in.

And yet, he had said so himself. He doubted she knew who he was writing to. Had she known, she would have never replied to his first letter.

Come to think of it, the very first letter had been tentative and distant. Far colder than the latest few. He had taken to giving her pet names, little nicknames she had come to grow fond of. She had been looking forward to hearing them out loud, to hear them would make it all more real.

She had considered herself lucky... To have been matched with someone so captivating, so well-read, so well spoken. Whose clever turn of phrase made her feel all kinds of wonderful.

And wanted.

She had felt wanted.

It couldn't be. Why would the dour Potions' Master ever want her. Her.

The insufferable know-it-all of Gryffindor house. Harry Potter's bookworm friend.

She traced the watermark with her finger idly, a thousand thoughts running through her mind.

From the desk of Professor S. T. Snape,
Head of Slytherin,
Potions' Master

"What are you thinking?" asked her friend.

Hermione shrugged. "I wonder what the 'T' stands for," she said off-handedly. She didn't have the heart to explain that she had hoped she might come to love the mystery man behind the lovely letters. That she might have started to grow rather fond of him.

Their most hated teacher.

She handed Harry the letter, pointing to the watermark at the top of the page. "See there? Professor S. T. Snape."

Harry frowned. "Not sure why I didn't peg him as the type to have a middle name. Lots of people have middle names."

The witch raised a brow. "We hated him, Harry. I don't suppose we thought much about him as an individual at all. We were far too concerned with placing the blame on him every time something came up." She let out a long, slow breath. Her chest heavy with the weight of it all. "Gods, I have to marry the wizard who killed Dumbledore."

Harry had told her the contents of Snape's memories at the pensieve. She knew it was a terrible demand that had come from Dumbledore, himself. She knew it had not been cold-blooded murder. Still, she could not shake away her discomfort. The man had killed. She had no way of knowing if it had been the only time.

Had he murdered before? When he was beneath Voldemort's thumb, had he killed? The man had lived through two wars. He had seen countless horrors. She had no doubt he had committed many of them in exchange for his life, in order to protect those he cared for.

She shivered. "I have to run," she conceded. "He was a deatheater, I can't marry him."

The boy who lived sighed, pulling her close. "He tried to repent for his deeds. He tried to protect us, you know? The war messed us all up pretty badly."

The image of the man bleeding out on the dusty floor of the Shrieking Shack flashed behind her eyelids as she blinked. Of Harry collecting his tears with a phial, of her own hands coming to his throat to staunch the blood, trying every potion she had in her bag. Of Ron pulling her away when he had stilled beneath her trembling hands.

She blinked several times, pushing the memory away. "I really thought he died that day. We left him there, alone." A solemn tear rolled down her cheek. "Merlin, Harry, it was awful what we did. How did he get out of there? He could not have possibly managed on his own. And then the trial..."

With a start, she realised she wanted to ask him. She wanted to know what had happened from his point of view. His trial had been long and unending. Harry having been a key witness during the whole ordeal. How had he felt about it?

Who did he have by his side?

He seemed so very alone.

And lonely.

Conflicted, she turned to her friend and frowned. "Do you think I could stay at Grimmauld Place for a few days to think out a plan?"

He nodded quickly. "Of course, my home is yours too. You should know that he'll think to look there. You remember how quickly he found us during the war? It'll be the first place he looks when he realises you aren't here."

She nodded. "That gives me a little over 3 days. It will have to do."