Chapters 11-20

Books

Hermione nodded, staring at the battered book.

She remembered her misgivings about it. How the bloody brilliance of the annotations had made her jealous. How the lack of respect had infuriated her. How all the arguments it had caused had hurt her. Now she would have to be grateful that Harry had remembered to retrieve it. She put it on the table and turned her attention to the second book. This one was different, a scorched, dark-green journal.

A diary? She frowned, instantly suspicious. But Harry wouldn’t give me a dangerous book, would he? Not after…

‘Of course he would,’ she muttered. ‘Some things never change.”

She pulled out her wand and held it at the ready, while turning the book into the light. Faded initials. An L and an E.

‘LE?’ She stared at the book, her heart pounding. Was this—could this be—

She flipped the book open.

‘Potions’, was written on the first page in a smooth, faintly girly handwriting.

‘Thoughts, Notes and Ramblings Pertaining to My Second-Favourite Subject at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.’

Underneath it someone had scrawled in a boyish, crabbed script that was trying too hard to look spiky and cool, but didn’t quite achieve the desired effect:

‘An Effort to Scientifically & Systematically Improve on Depillatius Boring & Moronicus Dunderheadalus’

was scrawled under that entry in narrow, boyish letters.

At a rustling noise she looked up. Harry was standing in the door.

‘Oh, Harry,’ Hermione whispered. ‘This—this is—’

He nodded. ‘My mother’s diary. I found it under a heap of galleons in my Gringotts vault when I cleaned up in there. It covers all of her Potions lessons at Hogwarts. She was even more obsessive about note-taking than you are.’

He took a deep breath and pointed at the other book. ‘Be careful, though, Hermione. He was livid ’cause I got my hands on his old book. I don’t want to imagine what he’d do if he realised this one was still around.’ He gulped. ‘She—He—They brewed together until he— until they had that row—until my mother—until she couldn’t—didn’t forgive him…He really did love her, Hermione.’

oooOooo

Slughorn, Hermione decided, was even slimier than a slug. Snape’s hair at its greasiest couldn’t be as oily as the Potions Master’s condescending friendliness. But, she did have to grant him that, he’d given her an exceedingly thorough test to assess her skills and he’d whipped up a schedule for their lessons in half an hour that left her feeling hopeful, if slightly queasy.

Hermione made it back to the Great Hall just in time for lunch. After six months of repairing and rebuilding, Hogwarts looked as if nothing had happened—apart from the epitaphs in the walls wherever someone had died in the last battle. She hesitated in the doorway. The hall was very empty without students. The enchanted sky above her was filled with drifting clouds.

‘Miss Granger!’

She started. Headmistress McGonagall was waving to her. ‘Why don’t you sit with us? I assure you, we don’t bite.’

‘Are you sure, Minerva dear?’ Horace Slughorn leaned back in his seat, laughing, his round belly wobbling slightly.

Hermione sighed. She’d rather called a house-elf to her room. Instead she quickly made her way up to the teachers’ table. Today only Headmistress McGonagall, Madam Pomfrey, Professor Vector and Professor Slughorn were present.

‘Thank you,’ she said, when McGonagall drew out a chair next to her.

‘Nonsense, dear, it would be ridiculous for you to sit down there.’

A soft pop heralded the arrival of a bowl of soup. Hermione sighed gratefully. Somehow the house-elves knew she had next to no appetite. She forced herself to pick up the spoon. She knew she had to eat. Adding an eating disorder to her problems wouldn’t be a good idea.

Hermione had read up on her symptoms, of course.

PTSD, depression, and quite simply…grief. She’d even considered seeing a Muggle therapist, but quickly discarded the idea. She wouldn’t be able to tell him the truth and that rather defeated the idea of therapy. Intellectually, she knew that as time passed, she would feel better. She would, eventually, come to terms with her losses. With never seeing her parents again—along with their memories they were irretrievably lost to her. With never seeing Fred again. Or Tonks. Or Lupin. Or—Ruthlessly she stopped the mantra of names that wanted to replay ad infinitum in her mind. Eventually, she would sleep better. She wouldn’t feel sick at the mere thought of food.

But at the moment such a simple act as eating her soup was almost more than she could handle.