Need to Know

Need to Know

His first priority: preliminary reconnaissance. Snape needed to assess the situation with as unbiased an eye as possible. So for the next week, Snape observed Miss Granger— and came to a few startled realizations.

He realized that he’d seen very little of her recently, coming or going. It seemed she arrived before most wizards had even awakened and left after the majority— including himself, who spent as little time as possible in the godforsaken building —had returned home. According to the account records, she must be taking meals in the Ministry canteen, but he’d yet to catch her at it.

Positive mountains of books, scrolls, parchment, tablets, and stelae were being credited to Granger’s office by the day. Snape noted her materials, but made no attempt to analyse them; the nature of her work was not— as yet —relevant to his investigation. But the amount she got through was rather… impressive, actually.

Luck found him on one particular day: Granger was called out for field work, and he was able to watch her closely as she left and returned. She looked well enough, by his estimation; a little thin, perhaps, but nothing to merit the alarm of the twitterpated duo.

News archives were the next source that Severus sought. Not that The Prophet was any more than a cheap tabloid, but it was the only contemporary source.

Headlines bombarded him as he examined the relevant half-year. “Golden Trio Prove Triumphant!” “Hermione Helps War-Wounded!” (with photo; he recognized that familiar swift tread into St. Mungo’s.) “Golden Girl Pens Magical Memoir!” The girl was practically divinized, though Snape had to admit that her headlines were far fewer than her companions; she must’ve tried to avoid the spotlight. But the only event he hadn’t known previously was her volunteer work. No help here.

He read the bloody memoir. At home, with wards in place. A copy he’d pinched from someone’s look-how-cultured-I-am shelf. He wouldn’t have been caught dead purchasing or borrowing the damned thing.

And yet, it was surprisingly readable. It made no pretense of being anything more than it was: a record of events and feelings as Hermione Granger remembered them. No attempts at analysing other people’s motives. No dramatization or commentaries. Just a girl who had seen and experienced far more than she ought to have done. Far more than any child ought. Severus remained thoughtful long after finishing the book.

He maintained his surveillance; the disjunction between the boys’ perceptions and the girl’s demeanor continued to rankle. Hermione maintained her intensive work schedule, but as one who became exhaustively involved in his own projects (and who’d observed her youthful habits), he could not see a problem therein. Perhaps he’d merely been witness to some overreaction; perhaps they were merely worried that if she didn’t conduct herself as an ordinary, libido-driven twenty-something, Hermione was going to end up living alone with forty Kneazles.

Not that she had to; Severus still vividly remembered those long, toned legs beneath that brief grey shirt.