Two

Disclaimer: They're not mine.

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"Being herself" was a commitment the Grangers' only daughter had been strongly encouraged to make from the beginning. She'd fretted about the other children at Hogwarts, and her mother had said consolingly, "Just be yourself," as she brushed a stray curl off of her daughter's forehead, kissing her goodbye at King's Cross. "All you have to do is be yourself, and everyone will love you for who you are. I promise."

Even at that age, Hermione had been sharp enough...and skeptical enough...to furrow her brows and wonder about the validity of that particular claim. Still, she'd been brought up with an unflagging devotion to her parents, and she always did as they instructed. She'd tried to be faithful to her mother's advice.

That had sure gone over well, she reflected wryly. Somehow, between leaving her Muggle school and entering Hogwarts, the rules had altered drastically. Her efforts, though noticed and applauded by many of her Hogwarts teachers, went largely unappreciated by the students. Those that did notice her only seemed to ridicule her. Some had despised her outright and made no secret of the fact. Ron's behavior, in retrospect, seemed downright civil compared to some of the treatment she'd endured at Hogwarts. She quickly discovered that her fellow students were more than willing to act kindly and obligingly when they desired something in return, but she'd found very few of them to be genuinely nice, and even fewer had sincerely liked her. She'd doled out hours of free tutoring and thousands of answers but received little heartfelt friendship in return.

Her father had also, like her mother, advocated the practice of "just being oneself." Simply being herself, if the adults in her life were as knowledgeable as they claimed, would confer mastery over her lifestyle and the unerring respect of everyone in it. Lying in bed the morning after her complete and wholesale humiliation at Snape's hands, staring dolefully at the burgundy canopy surrounding her, Hermione didn't feel in control of her life. She didn't feel remotely powerful in even a single aspect of it, damn it. What she did feel was angry, a hissing, spitting fury that had burgeoned overnight into a separate physical being squatting in her chest.

Most frustrating of all was the harsh reality facing her that day: she had no one at whom to direct this formidable feeling currently consuming her. Conceding that Snape was correct in his judgment of her Potions abilities was the most difficult thing she'd had to do, and coming from one of Voldemort's conquerors, she thought, that had to mean something. Still, she couldn't let herself be so immature as to indulge in self-pity. Bemoaning the injustice of his decision wasn't going to get her into St. Mungo's apprenticeship program. It wasn't going to pass her practical Medicinal Potions exams or heal anyone's injuries, small or grievous. Being herself in general wasn't destined to get her very far where Snape was concerned. It never had.

Ron hadn't seemed too impressed either, seeing as being Hermione Granger didn't result in the two of them fucking shamelessly in an ungainly tangle of legs and arms in his bed at Grimmauld Place. Only being Lavender Brown guaranteed that end. Hermione snorted. She didn't consider herself a hopeless romantic carting around extravagant illusions about sex, but still, she couldn't have imagined a more unpleasant way to lose her virginity than in the profoundly uncomfortable bedrooms of Grimmauld Place...and with his parents so closely nearby, nonetheless. If she hadn't entered the room when she had, Crookshanks would likely have beat her to it...and there was no telling what he'd have done when faced with the sight of Ron's pasty rear end jerking to and fro gracelessly. She envisioned angry red scratch marks and felt heartened.

After several hours of thoroughly unproductive seething while she counted the decorative stitches in the canopy, she began to feel a giggle rising in her cramped chest. Shocked at first, she coughed and buried her face in the pillow, not wanting to wake Ginny, who still slumbered soundly. It had suddenly occurred to her...a bizarre juxtaposition of the anger she still felt and the strange, hysterical humor taking her over...that she couldn't possibly hold herself culpable for Snape's rejection due to the practice of being herself. After all, she hadn't put any more genuine faith in her mother's soft murmurs that day than she had while listening to Ron's litany of excuses as Lavender posed provocatively on his bed. She hadn't tried to be herself. She tried endlessly to be what she thought her parents and her teachers wanted most.

No, there was no denying it...she'd never really given her own desires her full attention or effort. She hadn't been living a lie, but what real passions had she subjugated over the years, a willing sacrifice to remain at the top of her class and foremost in her professors' attentions? Hermione Granger devoted her time to marathon bouts of studying for exams scheduled months in the future. Hermione Granger sought to gain her teachers' unquestioning respect and admiration because she was addicted to the feeling of basking in her own accomplishments. Hermione Granger proved herself superior to all others attending Hogwarts for no other reason than she'd always thought she should. Wasn't it what one did, strive to be the best? She'd been handed the enormous privilege of a top-rate education at the hands of the most talented educators in the Wizarding world. It seemed only logical that she should long to be the best of the best.

It was what she should have done, she assured herself vehemently. She hadn't strayed from herself in that respect. She wanted to graduate at the top of her class and be the best that she possibly could. To pursue St. Mungo's simply to prove Snape wrong, though...that she could not, with any amount of self-respect, allow herself to do. She'd wanted to become a Potions mistress and Healer because she knew perfectly well the prestige that came with each title and the awe with which she'd be viewed by the public. While Harry and Ron sought validation on the Quidditch field, she'd spent her life seeking accolades for her intellect.

She had no deep and abiding passion for Potions. She enjoyed it immensely, of course, but it was no greater an appreciation than she felt for any other academic subject, the logical feelings of someone who relished academia in general. It was the most difficult subject she'd faced in her time at Hogwarts, and thus she'd somehow arrived at the conclusion that it was necessary for her to embark upon further and more advanced studies to prove her abilities. Not once had she stared into her cauldron and openly confronted the fact that potion making was decidedly not the direction in which her strengths and desires lay. What was she trying to prove? Ginny was absolutely right...she had talent in abundance. The fact that it didn't lie in the Potions arena wasn't going to make her feel the need to debase herself before Snape. She wasn't going to desperately seek assistance that she could honestly admit, in all frankness and maturity, she didn't desire in the first place.

Did he think she would return? Did he think she would beg him?

If she was going to prove him wrong, Hermione decided fervently, it was destined to be in an entirely different manner than he was undoubtedly expecting.

Dawn was faintly touching the castle grounds when she turned onto her side and sank into the pillows with a genuinely happy sigh. There was no guarantee that after all these years her parents' advice would work, but it was worth a try, wasn't it? She had no idea how to build a life for herself without first discovering who she really was and what she desired. It was worth an attempt, in any case.

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Being Hermione Granger, she later decided, involved not caring whether Ginny's hair always looked more artfully styled and her skin expertly made up. She'd battled her own unruly hair into submission after her shower and eventually forced it into a thick plait, whereupon her patience had entirely evaporated. It could frizz out on the top of her head for all she cared. Pulling on a long brown skirt and loose blue jumper, she regarded herself in the mirror with a pleasure she hadn't felt in months. It wasn't absolute self-acceptance, to be sure...but it was a start.

She followed Ginny down to the Great Hall for breakfast with an easy, casual spring in her step. Ginny, somehow sensing the inexplicable elevation in her mood, was chatting animatedly about how much she loved Saturdays and how well the Gryffindor team was performing that season. Hermione nodded and murmured her agreement every so often, but truthfully, her attention lay elsewhere. She was mentally steeling herself for the most difficult challenge she faced in being Hermione Granger.

Minutes later she chewed idly at her toast, forcing herself not to stare too interestedly at the staff table. Refraining from begging Snape for a letter of recommendation might be effortless, as it turned out, but refraining from staring at the oddly seductive way his fingers brushed against his goblet was considerably more difficult.

"Hermione!" Ginny was staring at her in amusement. She swallowed rather loudly.

"Yes?"

"I was just going to tell everyone that you decided to come watch us. Hermione's coming to watch practice today!" Ginny reiterated excitedly to the other members of the Gryffindor team. Hermione was touched by Ginny's exuberance. She was loath to consider just how deeply her behavior over the past few months had vexed her friends.

The surrounding Gryffindors ceased shoveling breakfast into their mouths and looked in her direction, visibly skeptical. She gave a nod and a reasonable facsimile of a smile and was pleased to see that a few smiled back before returning to their food. Perhaps she could coax them into believing she was slightly human after all.

Reaching for her goblet of pumpkin juice, Hermione gulped nervously. The morning's feeling of liberation and renewal still tingled through her, but facing the entire Great Hall was another situation entirely. She'd spent the eight weeks since the fall term had begun holed up in the library during every available moment, gorging herself on books, knowing with sickening certainty that she would later similarly gorge herself on the house-elves' sweets in the Hogwarts kitchen, her own brand of escapism. It was maddening how little control she'd had over her thoughts and actions, but the realization felt especially harsh when sitting amongst her peers.

Dutifully, she followed Ginny out to the Quidditch pitch when the meal had concluded and stood on the sidelines, admiring her friend fly. Ginny didn't quite possess Harry's crowd-pleasing flair, and her maneuvers didn't register at the level of the most phenomenal players in the sport, but Hermione found her a true marvel to watch. The shock of being outdoors, in the glare of the sun and the public eye, after so long made her shake lightly where she stood.

The team members, if they found her presence startling or unbelievable, didn't allow that fact to register in their expressions. They set about hollering orders at one another and executing flight plays with effortless familiarity, and Hermione relaxed under the obvious knowledge that no one was looking at her. Gradually, her initial shivering and second thoughts dissipated, and she was left with a novel feeling of contentment. It was a beautiful, crisp fall day, absolutely perfect for Quidditch. The Gryffindors were flying extraordinarily well, and many of the professors had turned out to admire that year's impressive team. The Headmistress had of course managed to find time in her busy schedule to watch her beloved Gryffindors, and Hermione was pleased to note that she spent an inordinate amount of time watching Ginny, who magnificently outshone all the others. Her friend's athleticism, far from sending Hermione into a fit of self-loathing that morning, began to make her feel almost giddily proud.

Professor Vector, Hermione's favorite instructor to date, stood solidly beside Professor McGonagall, casting an analytical eye on the players as they circled above. Best of all, Hermione soon decided, was the fact that Snape wasn't present to cloud her renewed mind with uncertainty and other, more terrifying emotions.

A flash of black at the opposite edge of the pitch caught her eye, and her breath hitched painfully. She'd been too complacent, it seemed. There he was, coming to a stop at the sidelines, standing upright independently but still visibly strained. His desire to be separated from his colleagues couldn't have been more readable, but that was nothing particularly shocking. His face and frame remained immobile, but Hermione knew that had she dared to approach him, his dark eyes would be flickering rapidly back and forth, following the movements of Slytherin's most promising rivals. Worriedly, she found herself wondering if McGonagall had managed to catch him alone to lecture him since the previous afternoon. Caught between admiring Ginny and her wild speculations, she hoped fervently that whatever was destined to pass between the two professors had already occurred.

Or maybe, her mind thought frantically, McGonagall wouldn't notice him at all.

Too late.

She'd spotted him.

Hermione watched with mounting dread as the Headmistress' head swiveled and took in the sight of her colleague. With a quickly murmured word to Professor Vector, she straightened her shoulders and marched smartly over to the Potions professor, proceeding to deliver a rant the likes of which Hermione had never witnessed. It was awe-inspiring, really. Power seemed to radiate from the Headmistress in tangible waves. Hermione couldn't hear their voices, of course, but she found that she didn't need to be privy to the words themselves to recognize the stony fury on the Potions master's thin face. Their gazes flicked across the pitch in tandem, alighting on her, and she felt her cheeks begin to blaze with mortification.

Instantly she redirected her own gaze to the sky and resumed watching the players. Peripherally, it was clear that McGonagall was still berating Snape, but there was no wiser option at her disposal than to simply ignore the two of them. McGonagall, she assured herself, was a woman of her word; if she'd felt the need to lecture Snape, it wouldn't be expressly on Hermione's behalf, so he had no reason to involve her in the exchange if she kept her mouth shut.

Dedicated wholly to that plan, Hermione clapped with genuine exuberance when Ginny performed a swift recapture of the Quaffle and took off smoothly. Straightening her House scarf and pulling it more snugly about her chilled throat, she dared a glance back at the professors. McGonagall had moved away from Snape physically, but their eyes were still locked onto one another, his expression mutinous. Her stomach flopped nervously and landed on the cold grass below her when she realized, sickened, that he was making his way deliberately towards her. The fleeting thought that it was his stiff limp, more than anything, that tore at her heart served only to discomfit Hermione further. She immediately feigned interest in the practice as he approached her, his cloak drifting in the strong autumn wind.

He stopped a few feet in front of her, imperious. "Miss Granger," he greeted her, his voice gravelly. She ignored the telltale flare of heat in her abdomen. It took her a moment to realize that while his pinched expression seemed the same as always, she hadn't heard that underlying tone in his voice since they'd watched him fall in the Shrieking Shack, coated in his own blood.

He's in pain, she realized forlornly, the previous emotions dissipating. He was in excruciating, debilitating pain, even if he refused to show it.

Hermione stifled the overwhelming urge to reach for him and try to alleviate some of his burden. Striving for nonchalance, she said simply, "Hello, Professor." Her voice was neutral, not too tremulous, she was satisfied to note. She then returned her gaze to Ginny, whose perch on her broom was growing increasingly tense. She was coiled, preparing to strike, and Hermione's hopeless ignorance of game strategy left her in complete suspense.

"I trust you are... well?" It took her a moment, caught up in observing Ginny, to recognize that Snape was still speaking to her. Startled, Hermione looked back to him and said rather bluntly,

"Excuse me?"

"I said, I trust you are well?"

Her eyes narrowed so obviously that she could feel her brows furrow. Her anxiety was being replaced by suspicion and a faint irritation. The Headmistress had clearly put him up to this. Was he leading up to an apology? She didn't want an apology, and certainly not from him. An apology from someone who'd only been honest with her...however unendurable his bluntness may have been at the time...would only have made her feel more like a child.

She settled for, "Yes. I'm fine, sir. Yourself?" Snape's implacable expression wavered just slightly. Hermione almost thought he looked surprised.

Ginny chose that moment to execute a truly spectacular maneuver, and Hermione let loose an appreciative yell that surprised even her with its volume. Snape literally jumped where he stood. Hermione laughed breathlessly as Ginny tossed her a smile and did a little victory dance on her broom and then turned back to him.

"Sorry, sir. I didn't mean to startle you. Did you see what Ginny Weasley did?"

"I did not."

She realized with chagrin that the shock of her outburst had probably further intensified his already considerable discomfort. Hermione didn't want to look at him. She couldn't take the chance that her eyes, which seemed to follow an agenda all their own in his presence, would linger on what ailed him...his thin, almost cadaverous face, the chapped lips and lank hair, and the stringy limbs that had never recovered from atrophy, losing what little muscle they'd previously held. These observations ailed her as well, more than she liked to admit...more than she could account for, even were she to accept the nagging signs of her body.

She shifted in her thick coat, aware as always that even a quick Transfiguration didn't fully accommodate the more generous proportions of her figure. Normally, it took all the discipline she could muster on a daily basis not to agonize over what he thought, if anything, of the changes; but that day, of all days, she simply wanted not to care about his, or anyone else's, opinion.

When she'd moved past the discomfort and looked back, Snape was shooting McGonagall an annoyed look as if to say, 'There, I told you she's fine.' McGonagall glared at him but nodded jerkily, and the Potions professor limped off in the direction of the castle, leaving Hermione to finally exhale.