Hermione cried for some time. Time within which Harry moved them from the hallway to one of the many empty rooms in Hogwarts Castle.

This one was small. And had a lone desk for some reason. And Harry helped her sit on the desk as he simultaneously apologized, consoled her, and fumed at Prof. Snape.

Eventually, inevitably, her crying tapered out, and she wiped her snot and tears with her handkerchief.

“I’m sorry, Hermione,” Harry was saying, “I should have known he would take it out on you too. Snape’s just too pathetic to not do something like that. I should have known. I’m sorry.”

“Why?” Hermione asked, her voice croaky.

“Because he’s pathetic!” Harry said with more hate than she’d ever imagined the boy could feel. “He’s a pathetic, despicable—” the words seemed to elude him in his anger “—asshole, who actually thinks he has some sort of right to be angry. He’s delusional!”

Hermione waited a few seconds, giving Harry time to calm down a little, then she said, “I meant, why did you say those things to him, Harry? What did they mean? What unfinished business do you have with him? Why does he hate you—why does he hate us? Why do you hate him? I don’t understand any of this, Harry. Why!?”

By the end Hermione was on her feet and starting to cry again, and her confused rage seemed to shock Harry out of whatever fury he’d been feeling himself.

She stood there, panting with fresh tears on her checks, waiting—hoping!—for an answer from Harry, because after everything that had just happened, she really needed one.

Harry meanwhile seemed to deflate, losing all his anger and energy. And in a small, heartbreaking voice the boy said, “Snape’s the reason my parents are dead.”

Hermione’s brain shut off for several seconds. “What?”

“Do you know what a Death Eater is?” Harry asked, and Hermione’s heart seized as she realized what Harry was saying.

“No. No, Harry, th—that’s not possible, they wouldn’t let—”

“Oh, they would,” Harry said, looking like each word sapped even more of his energy. “Dumbledore would.”

Harry sighed, then, uncaring of the dust, sat on the ground.

A white shape flew into the room from the one, small window; Hedwig, and she swooped and perched beside Harry on the ground, pressing into his side.

Harry smiled at the owl, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“There was a prophecy,” he said, looking back at Hermione, and the expression in his green eyes made her want to hug him. “About a boy with the power to “vanquish” The Dark Lord. Snape heard it, and like a good, little Death Eater, he ran off to tell his boss.”

“Voldemort,” Hermione whispered, utterly enthralled and horrified by Harry’s tale.

“Yes,” Harry said, his eyes boring into hers, “otherwise known as Prof. Quirrel.”

Hermione’s blood turned to ice. “No,” she said in denial.

“Quite the track record Dumbledore has, isn’t it?” Harry asked, but there was no mirth, no sarcasm, no bitterness. Everything just came out flat and dull. “So, anyway, Voldemort, or Quirrelmort, if you prefer, got his little spy, Scabbers, to tell him where my family was hiding.”

Hermione blinked, confused by that detail, until two memories came to mind. One of a cat turning into a woman, and the other of a rat appearing to understand Harry’s words.

“Scabbers isn’t a rat, is he?”

“Nope. His real name is Peter Pettigrew, lifelong friend of my father’s, and he practically gave Voldemort the key to our home.”

Harry’s eyes were glittering with unshed tears, and Hermione felt them in her eyes too. Hedwig pressed closer into the boy’s side, but he didn’t even seem to notice.

“He killed my father in the living room. I heard it. Then he took his time; walking up the stairs like he owned the place. My mother didn’t even try to fight. She just stood in front of my crib, begging him to take her instead.”

Harry’s eyes had gone unfocused, his gaze trained on a scene from a decade ago, and he raised a finger at something only he could see. A finger that coincidentally pointed right at Hermione.

“Avada Kedavra, he said. Two words. A flash of green. And then he walked up to me. He put his wand right here,” and his finger moved to press against his scar as his eyes once again found Hermione’s and their unshed tears finally fell. “It hurt, Hermione.” Harry’s voice broke and Hermione choked on a sob. “It hurt worse than dying. And I remember every second.

“And now I’m here in this place. And I’m terrified, Hermione. Because this isn’t even as bad as it gets, and I have no idea what I’m going to—”

Hermione was sure Harry said a bunch of other things, but whatever they were, she didn’t hear them, because she’d crushed the boy in a hug, and was crying with him.

Harry cried himself to sleep, and it was only then that Hermione noticed the weariness he’d somehow hidden all week.

What must it have been like for him all this time? She thought.

And what on earth was Dumbledore thinking, hiring a Death Eater and Voldemort!?

Or was it possible that he didn’t know? No, he had to! From what Harry said, it sounded like he knew. So why—Hermione forced her mind to still.

It wouldn’t do for her to jump to conclusions. Maybe there was more she, or even Harry, didn’t know.

Yes. Yes, that had to be it. There had to be a logical, rational explanation for everything.

She looked down at the boy whose head had somehow wound up on her lap. For his sake she really hoped that there was.

*****

Because Hermione didn’t want to disturb Harry, she let him sleep. Even prepared a patch of ground to be as comfortable as she was able.

The Gust Spell took care of the dust well enough, and repeated attempts at the Softening Charm turned the hard stone to a more soft carpet-y feeling. She’d added the Heating Charm at first, because she didn’t want Harry to catch a cold, but that had made the ground too hot, so she’d moved to a different spot and repeated the process, but without the Heating Charm.

By the end, she was rather tired herself, so she sat by Harry to rest, only to open her eyes several hours later to see Harry staring at her.

“Harry, you’re awake?” She said, staring at him. He looked well-rested, although his face was rather dirty with dried tears and some snot.

“Yeah, I just woke up,” Harry said, then he pressed his palm against the ground. “Did you cast The Softening Charm on the ground?”

She nodded. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Oh. Well, thanks, that was the best sleep I’ve had in some time.”

Hedwig flew onto Harry’s shoulder then, rubbing her head against his. “Thanks, Hedwig,” Harry said, then he looked at Hermione. “What time is it?”

Hermione looked at her watch and gaped. “7:15? Dinner’s started already. How did so much time fly by?”

Harry rose and offered her a hand. “We should get going then. Wouldn’t want to miss dinner.”

Hermione took his hand and stood, as she remembered something. “We left our bags back in Potions.”

“Oh,” Harry said, before shrugging. “Well, I’m sure the others thought to get them for us.”

“Oh. Yes, you’re right,” she agreed.

What went unsaid was that neither of them was in anyway eager to go back there.

As she made to open the door, Harry stopped her.

“I know there’s still a lot I need to tell you,” he said, “and I will. But tomorrow. There’s something I need to show you first. After that, I’ll explain everything. I promise.”

Hermione believed him, so she nodded and they made their way to The Great Hall for dinner after making a stop at a restroom to freshen up a bit.

As soon as they walked into The Great Hall, heads began to turn in their direction, and those who saw them, alerted others to their presence, until, very soon, it seemed like the entire hall was staring.

Hermione almost sighed. This again.

Even the teachers were staring, and when Hermione looked, she found that Prof. Snape was conspicuously absent.

She was... relieved.

A relief that fled when she caught Prof. Quirrel’s eyes.

Harry must have noticed her freeze, because he thankfully took her hand, and she was able to make herself breathe again.

As Hermione and Harry headed for the Gryffindor table, she began to hear flashes of conversation.

—heard they were kicked out—

—their potion exploded—

—spread poisonous gas—

—Potter dueled Snape—

Where did people get these rumours?

“Hermione, Harry, over here,” Faye called from where the first-years were sitting, and Hermione and Harry began to head over.

Before they could get there however, Prof. McGonagall approached them.

The witch looked quite stern.

“And where have you two been?” She asked, not quite icily, but in a much harder tone than Hermione was expecting.

The girl was confused, but before she could say anything, Harry said, “Hermione and I were doing some reading in one of the empty classrooms. Why, is something wrong?”

Prof. McGonagall looked down at Harry. “Prof. Snape had some... complaints,” she said. “About you.”

Harry shrugged. “Somehow I’m not surprised. I assume The Headmaster wants to see me or something.”

Prof. McGonagall’s lips dipped down in displeasure. “Yes,” she said finally. “But after dinner. Wait in your common room. I’ll take you to him.”

Then she turned and walked away.

As Hermione watched the professor go, she wondered why the older woman had looked angry. Angry at Harry.

“Doesn’t she know?” She asked Harry softly, as they continued to join their friends. “About Snape and your parents.”

“She knows enough,” was all Harry said.

Hermione was still very confused, and to be frank, she was starting to get quite sick of it.

Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.