Chapter 3: Homenum Revelio (Hermione’s Memories, Part One–August 1997):

Chapter 3:

(Hermione's Memories, Part One – August 1997)

Hermione became aware. Eyes still closed, she felt the harsh chill of the room force the hairs on her arms to stand rigid. She knew she was no longer alone, despite the absence of sound: no footstep, soft as velvet on carpet; no breaths, shallow and stifled to avoid detection. Yet, she knew she was being watched.

Her mind began to work at an unnatural pace, offering her outlandish plans of action, possible scenarios, and plausible explanations. It could be Kreacher, the house-elf, a disgruntled sentinel defending the breach of his dead master's bedroom. But Kreacher avoided the "Mudblood" with the determination of one who avoids a rabid dog. It could be Harry and Ron returned from their latest Ministry expedition; yet, they would have knocked, shouted out her name – they would never just intrude, even if it was unheard of to find her alone in one of the upstairs rooms.

The worst scenario then?

A Death Eater.

Panic altered her breathing, though she concentrated hard on appearing to remain asleep. She was well aware of the agonising pointlessness of her attempts: the action of trying to inhale and exhale with perfect unconscious symmetry is the surest way to erratic respiration. She tried to console herself: Death Eaters could not access Grimmauld Place; they had been hanging about outside the building, staring up towards windows they could not see for weeks now. The only beings with access to this haven were members of the Order.

Except...!

Oh, dear God, the exception! The Death Eater with access. The Death Eater debased enough to blast Moody's protection spell into oblivion. Hermione made a silent plea to any deity with heart enough to listen that the sound of her heart, hammering out an entreaty for her to run, could only be heard in her own finely-tuned ears. Its beat was so insistent, so overpowering, that she wondered how the Muggles in the adjoining houses could not hear its rhythmical pound.

She caught his scent on one of her carefully controlled inhales.

Unmistakeable.

He had always smelled the same: aconite oil, leaf of fluxweed, hellebore, cauldron smoke, and walls made of glistening stone that reeked of dank repression. She tried to wish the heady aroma away, blame it on her fear – a mistaken confusion of the senses – but as she inhaled slowly, the scent of him grew. It drifted towards her nostrils and slightly parted lips. It entered her mouth and nose, announcing his presence, daring her to end her pretence, sneering at her fear, enticing her to act.

She opened her eyes.

In a mad, whimsical moment, she was driven by the comforting notion of being trapped in some intense and terrifying nightmare – unsurprising, as she had drifted off to sleep on Regulus Black's ancient and crumbling bed. The room was dark and oppressive, even by daylight and with the assistance of curtains thrown back to embrace the light. It might as well be a grim winter's night for all the impression an ineffective, overcast August evening had upon the forsaken room. Everything about it spoke of decay. A thick layer of dust had settled quite comfortably some years ago, its grey veil casting a net over every surface, obscuring colour, texture, and detail.

On first entering the room, Hermione had let her finger trail idly along the surface of a wooden bureau and watched with fascination as she created a rich mahogany path amidst the fine powder of neglect. She had been sure that Regulus Black's old room would reveal something – some clue they had missed the first time they had searched it – a vital piece of information that would be pivotal in the search for the hidden Horcruxes. But her search yielded nothing new, and she had dropped down onto the edge of the bed, defeated and exhausted. It had been weeks since her sleep had been untainted by images of fear, and she could barely remember what it was to drift awake gently from an unencumbered slumber. These days, it was more usual to wake up with a jolt of realisation that the ghoulish dream she had just had would not wither and die as her consciousness returned. Her fears were natural, her dreams a reflection of the actual, not a distortion of the imagination.

The three of them had spent every night since their arrival at number twelve, Grimmauld Place camping together in sleeping bags on the floor or sofa of the drawing room. But there was something about the visual of an actual bed – pillows, covers, carved wooden bedposts – that made Hermione want to rest her head on an ancient pillow, just to test its softness. A thorough cleansing charm was required before she would contemplate placing skin and hair on the heavy green tapestry throw. Once that was done, lying down suddenly seemed irresistible, like Dorothy in the field of poppies, she thought as her head touched the pillow and her knees curled comfortably and childlike beneath her. She wore no ruby slippers, but like the girl from Kansas City, she drifted off as if bound by a magical enchantment until something had compelled her to wake. Time has little significance for the sleeper, and once awake, she could not tell whether it had been two minutes or two hours since she had first lay down on the bed.

Her eyes were open now.

Not a dream.

Not a nightmare or a hallucination induced by the Wicked Witch of the West. The darkness of the room yielded an even darker form: a man with robes which fell about him like the wings of a raven. As her startled eyes grew accustomed to the dark, she could make out more detail. His black, lank hair was longer than she remembered; it hung about his face, obscuring most of it, but the great beak of a nose was unmistakeable even in the dark and from a distance of six feet. He held his wand in his hand, but he was not ready for attack or defence: his stance was that of a man who does not regard his opponent as a threat, though it was hardly relaxed.

She didn't know where the sudden urge to giggle came from – perhaps it was nerves: the mind's attempt to reassure the terror rising in her gut. She didn't laugh, however, because the realisation that she was lying alone on Regulus Black's bed, wand out of reach, whilst being scrutinised with apparent fascination by a Death Eater – a loyal disciple of Lord Voldemort, a murderer, a betrayer, a man who hated her – was enough to stifle any inappropriate giggle. The wizard towering above her was no benevolent fraud from Oz; he was as real as the thick-weave bed cover clutched in her fist. By the moonlight seeping through a chink in the curtains, she saw that his expression was as shocked as her own.

He held his wand higher, then flicked vaguely towards the centre of the room. The gas lamps on the wall erupted, and small orbs of light flickered from their centre, bathing the room in an orange glow. His movement finally forced her into action. She was on her feet in moment – a desperate attempt to throw herself past him and make her great escape. But Snape was quicker. She managed to stand and put one foot in front of another before he stopped her desperate progress with another flick of his wand. She didn't know the spell – it wasn't Petrificus Totalus, though it did prevent her legs from moving. Her arms, head, and upper body, however, remained unaffected, so that she was rooted to the spot, comically swaying like a terrified Jack-in-a-box.

She took the unexpected opportunity of having upper arm movement to reach for her wand, shoved carelessly down the back of her jeans.

'Expelliarmus,' muttered Dumbledore's killer, so casually she wanted to protest at his disregard, rather than the fact that he now had her wand, neatly caught as it flew from her own grasp into his. He strode around the bed towards her, unconcealed hostility etched upon his harsh face.

Hermione wasn't afraid to die. She was afraid to die so ineffectually, without having had the chance to help Harry, or before telling Ron that she liked him as more than just a friend. She had hoped to go down fighting – casting curses and saving innocents – not like this, not to be chanced upon by Severus-fucking-Snape while she slept. That was no way to go. Though, if she was to be honest with herself, she would have to admit that her strengths lay somewhere other than curse hurling: she was no soldier. If tears fell down her cheeks as he stared down at her, they were of disappointment, not fear, though she hoped he would have the decency to make it quick. Perhaps there was a shred of humanity in there, a wish to spare his former student humiliation and prolonged pain before her end. She didn't particularly want his wrath, his contempt, and his ridicule – or worse – before he delivered the final curse.

'Miss Granger,' he said. It was more of an expression of surprise than a sneer. 'You are here alone?' She refused to answer and avoided his gaze ferociously.

'I'll ask again. Are you alone?' He made his point ominously by pressing the point of his wand into her cheek. She jerked her head away and glared at his shoulder with all the disgust she could muster.

'If I am forced to ask a third time, it will be the last. After that, the measures I take to find out will be less... civilised. Are you here alone, Miss Granger?'

She spat out her affirmation, damned if she would give away Harry and Ron. The least she could do was to deceive him into believing them elsewhere, not, as the truth happened to be, due back at any moment. She couldn't bear for it all to end here in this obsolete bedroom as a result of her surrender to fatigue.

'And Potter?'

'I have no idea.'

'Liar,' he said in a tone that was almost seductive. 'Tell me where Potter is.'

She laughed contemptuously. 'In your fucking dreams!' she replied. It felt good to show him she had no fear, no need of his approval, no wish for his approbation – that she couldn't be intimidated any longer by the greasy-haired, over-grown bat made of pure evil. Spitting out her defiance in his face so coarsely felt like the ultimate in rebellion, and her fear was momentarily abated when she saw him react to her words with a palpable recoil.

'You really think you stand a chance,' he said, 'against the most powerful living wizard and all his followers?' His lip rose with contempt. 'You have failed at the first hurdle. Alone. Unprotected. Wandless.' He tapped her wand carelessly against his thigh as he spoke. 'Did you learn nothing from your Defence Against the Dark Arts classes?'

'I learned to trust no one. I learned that from Professor Moody,' she replied. 'I should have taken him more seriously.'

'You learned it from Barty Crouch Junior,' he said. 'Where. Is. Potter?'

'I wouldn't tell you if even I knew!'

Snape took a step closer to her. 'Look at me.'

Hermione had been avoiding looking at him, knowing what he was capable of should she allow him even a momentary glance into her eyes. She looked diligently at the floor and shook her head. The carpet was worn and threadbare in places – years of pacing from its previous occupier had evidently taken its toll. She noticed a dark stain deeply ingrained in the thinning pile and wondered how long it must have been there and what could possibly have been spilled to elude magical cleaning. She felt slightly comforted by the mundane thoughts that helped suppress her terror. Nothing really mattered anymore; she would soon be dead and for her, at least, the nightmare would be over. She only hoped – no, prayed – that he would end it here because the alternative was too fearful to contemplate: she doubted her bravery would withstand an audience with Lord Voldemort.

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