Chapter Text
Hermione had learned to time her arrival at dinner precisely. Too early, and she’d be sitting alone awkwardly avoiding the ogling eyes of students who still saw her as a war hero. Too late, and she'd be trapped making small talk with Sybill Trelawney about planetary alignments.
Tonight she'd gotten it right. The Great Hall hummed with student chatter as she slipped into her seat between Neville and Madame Pomfrey, the latter already engaged in what sounded like a spirited debate with Snape about the proper steeping time for valerian root.
"—completely irrelevant if the water temperature isn't maintained," Snape was saying, his voice carrying that particular dryness that made it impossible to tell if he was being sincere or sardonic. Probably both.
"Good evening, Hermione," Neville said, passing her the roast potatoes without being asked. Years of eating together at the Gryffindor table had given them an easy rhythm.
"How were the fourth-years today?" she asked.
"Enthusiastic." He winced. "Perhaps too enthusiastic. I'm still finding bits of bubotubers all over the greenhouse."
Hermione smiled, reaching for the gravy. This was the part of teaching she'd underestimated—the comfortable monotony of it. It was only her second year of teaching at Hogwarts, but she already knew the grooves of staffroom conversations, the signs of a student itching for mischief, the tells of all her colleagues. McGonagall's eyes would crinkle just a little when a student excuse was particularly creative. Hooch's cheeks got rosy when she had a good piece of gossip to share. And Snape...
Well. Snape was harder to read, though she'd gotten better at it.
She wasn't supposed to notice the way his mouth would quirk, just slightly, when a student did something unexpectedly kind for another. Or how he'd started taking his tea with sugar, as if he'd decided he didn't need the extra bitterness.
Not that she was paying attention.
"Professor Granger, I don't suppose you've had any luck with the Charms research I mentioned?" Pomfrey asked, turning toward her. "The diagnostic spell modifications?"
"Actually, yes—I think I've worked out a way to extend the detection range without sacrificing specificity. I can show you my notes after dinner if you'd like."
"That would be most helpful." Pomfrey's expression warmed. Then, apparently as an afterthought, "Severus, you might find this interesting as well. It builds on some of the same principles as your modified Revealing Solutions."
Hermione felt rather than saw Snape's attention shift toward her. She kept her eyes on her plate, cutting into her roast chicken with careful precision.
"Does it," he said. Not quite a question.
"The theoretical framework is similar," Hermione said, risking a glance up. His dark eyes were unreadable. "Though the application is obviously different. Charms versus Potions."
"Obviously." A pause. "I would be interested to see your notes."
It wasn't quite approval, but from Snape, it might as well have been a standing ovation. Hermione felt an entirely inappropriate flutter of satisfaction and firmly suppressed it. She was a professor now, a published researcher with a Charms mastery. She did not get giddy over professional acknowledgment from colleagues.
Even if said colleague had cheekbones that could cut glass and hands that moved with devastating precision.
She was contemplating the gravy with intense focus when Headmistress McGonagall entered the hall in a flurry. McGonagall briskly approached the head table, her expression carefully neutral in a way that immediately set off alarm bells.
"Severus. Poppy. A word, if you please."
It wasn't a request.
Snape set down his fork with deliberate care. Pomfrey was already rising, smoothing her robes. They followed McGonagall toward the staff exit, their figures disappearing through the side door behind the High Table.
The hum of student conversation continued, oblivious.
"That didn't look good," Neville murmured.
Hermione watched the door swing shut. "No," she agreed. "It didn't."
She'd learned to trust her instincts during the war—that prickle at the back of her neck that said pay attention, something's wrong. She was feeling it now, a cold finger of unease tracing down her spine.
Whatever had pulled McGonagall away from dinner, whatever required both the Potions Master and the school's Healer...
Nothing good came from urgent meetings on a Tuesday evening.
Hermione pushed her roast potatoes around her plate and tried not to think about the last time she'd felt this particular flavour of dread.