As usual, thanks are due to Whitehound for her absolutely fabulous beta work.

---

Several things happened at once.

First, he noticed the girl—Hermione—backing up against the trolley. Her fingers curled over the plastic bars meant to keep patients like him from rolling out of bed. He saw her knuckles turn white. The redheaded fellow who came with her had paled, and now sputtered: “Minister Scrimgeour, I can explain-”

“We were securing evidence,” Hermione cut him off. Her chin rose. “We heard a rumor that Professor Snape was here, and we didn’t want anything to happen to him.”

Evidence? Professor Snape? He cursed his morphine-addled brain, and tried processing everything he heard. The girl was a decent dissembler—he had a feeling that her daily life often involved putting things in their best light. Her apparent nervousness about the man standing before them told him volumes. Do not trust this man.

The man called Scrimgeour smiled thinly. “How nice for Professor Snape,” he said, and his gaze slid over to him. “Being so highly regarded by one’s former student must warm your cockles, eh, Snape?”

Keep him talking. You’ll learn more. “My cockles would be a great deal warmer if I knew who the hell you were,” he said. He used the time to file away the new information: Professor. Student. Hermione Granger. Scrimgeour is a minister of something.

“You don’t recognize me, Professor? I’m the new Minister.”

“There’s an entire ministry devoted to self-important pricks, now? I wasn’t aware.”

Scrimgeour’s lion-like mane of hair seemed to go limp, along with his smile. Snape—if that was in fact his real name—knew he’d angered him, and felt an unexpected wash of pleasure. Having a small measure of power felt good, after all the helplessness, indignity, and sheer physical pain of the past weeks. Scrimgeour advanced, and Hermione shifted to one side, blocking his path. Scrimgeour scowled down at her. From Snape’s perspective, she suddenly seemed very small with the other man looming over her. He saw her throat bob up and down before she spoke: “Professor Snape doesn’t remember anything, Minister.”

Scrimgeour showed his teeth. “You may believe that, my dear, but I’ll make my own mind up.” He turned to Snape. His hand fell to the blanket, and plucked up one corner of it. He twisted the gold tassel between his fingers. “Switched loyalties again, have you?”

“It seems I have. Normally I’m a quilt man.” When Scrimgeour’s eyes sparked, he added, with some asperity: “Really, Mr. Scrimgeour, if I possessed the ability to magically transform a hospital blanket into a down comforter, do you think I’d still be here? Mightn’t I have attempted to—oh, I don’t know—get my fucking teeth back?”

“It was me who changed the blanket, Minister! I told you, he doesn’t remember anything! Not even his magic!”

Magic?

“Miss Granger,” Scrimgeour said, with a predatory smile, “we have ways of making him remember.” He turned, and pitched his voice out the door. “Alastor, you’re needed.”

A truly haggard man stumped his way loudly into the room. He had a mat of iron-gray hair, and his face was a mess of scars, as though an angry sculptor had taken out his frustrations on the wet clay of his skin. One of his eyes roved independently of the other, chameleon-like. It flared bright blue, and focused on the redheaded man on the other side of the room. “Arthur?” he asked. His voice was gravel. “What are you doing here?”

“I might ask you the same thing; you’re retired,” the one called Arthur said. “At least, it seemed you were…”

“I came out of retirement the night Dumbledore died, and you know it,” Alastor said, and his blue eye veered violently in Snape’s direction. Suddenly there was a thin stick in his hand—the same sort Hermione had used to transform his blanket--and he had it pointed straight at Snape’s heart. “I should finish you off right now-”

“No!” Hermione threw herself between the stick and Snape’s bed. It was an awkward fit; the older man now jabbed her in the chest. “Professor—I mean, Mr.—Moody, there’s procedure-”

“To hell with that, he murdered Dumbledore!”

Murder? For the first time, real fear cut through the pain. His throat went dry. These people wanted to arrest him. They thought he had killed a man. In comparison, the girl’s frivolous transformation of his blanket mattered very little.

Hermione was talking again: “Minister Scrimgeour, you know the law. Professor Snape should be formally charged with a crime, for which he would then stand trial.” She took a deep breath. “Surely the Ministry of Magic and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement wouldn’t deprive a man of medical care, which would be sorely lacking at Azkaban? Shouldn’t Professor Snape be detained at St. Mungo’s for his own safety?”

The one called Alastor Moody had stepped away from her. He didn’t look chastened enough to ease Snape’s mind. Instead his strange eye flicked between Scrimgeour and Hermione. Scrimgeour gave the girl a calculating look. Snape couldn’t see her face, and thus couldn’t evaluate her reaction to Scrimgeour’s appraisal, but something told him she bore up nicely. After a moment, Scrimgeour himself seemed pleased. A sly smile played across his face. “That was remarkable, Miss Granger. Have you considered a career in the Ministry?”

“If the Ministry embraces vigilante tactics like detaining a man without charge, I’d rather not sully my name by association,” she snapped. “If you’ll remember, Sirius Black was imprisoned without charge for twelve years. Meanwhile, Peter Pettigrew helped Voldemort rise again, and the Ministry coddled itself with its own ignorance.”

There was a profound silence. “You’ll wish I had Obliviated you, for that,” Moody muttered.

“Oh, no she won’t!” Arthur said. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Mr. Moody, Hermione and I are witnesses. Our testimony can provide evidence in Professor Snape’s trial.” An exultant smile writ itself large on Arthur’s face—Snape had the feeling that the man experienced such triumphs on a very rare basis.

Hermione looked from Arthur to Scrimgeour, and then at Snape. This time, she beamed. She looked back at Scrimgeour. “In which case, you should hand us a subpoena rather quickly, otherwise we might have to share our testimony,” she said. Her smile grew. “I’m sure you’re well aware of my friendship with Rita Skeeter, Minister Scrimgeour.”

Scrimgeour folded his hands. Apprehension licked Snape’s guts—his weeks on the street had only honed danger-senses which he’d found surprisingly sharp to begin with. Currently, they told him that Hermione was not nearly afraid enough of Scrimgeour. “Surely that won’t be necessary, Miss Granger.”

“Make a formal arrest now, with a formal charge, and detention at St. Mungo’s with visits from his solicitor, or I tell Rita and the Lovegoods. The Quibbler’s readership grows daily, or so Luna tells me.”

Scrimgeour gave Hermione a glance that said he was both wrathful and appreciative; Snape saw her take a little step backward. “You should know by now that the Prophet supports this administration, and the individuals who read The Quibbler maintain opinions that rather fail to galvanize the population.” He leaned forward. Arthur made a step, but Alastor Moody held him back. Hermione paled, but threw back her shoulders and stared dead ahead. When Scrimgeour spoke, Snape heard the violence in his voice. He found it disturbingly reminiscent of the tone pimps used with girls on the game, before striking them. “Threaten me again, Miss Granger, and-”

“Hermione, come here now,” Snape said. His hand reached out, and grabbed her by the wrist. He tugged and she shuffled sideways toward him. Scrimgeour watched her move. “If you insist on being a champion for justice, you should know it doesn’t do to arrive in court with a black eye.”

Hermione gave him a quick, strange glance, and looked back at Scrimgeour. She drew herself up, and squared her shoulders. Under his hand, her fingers trembled. “Threaten me again, Minister, and the wizarding world will learn just how much their beloved Harry Potter despises you,” she warned. She smiled weakly. “That will galvanize the population quite nicely, I think.”

Snape knew nothing about this Harry Potter—only that Hermione knew him, called him “beloved” of the “wizarding world,” and that Scrimgeour obviously feared him. The minister’s expression went decidedly sour. He looked at Moody. “Mr. Moody, arrest this man,” he said, and nodded at Snape.

Moody did not hesitate. He stepped toward the bed, and found himself up against Hermione again. “Wait,” she said, putting a hand on his chest. “You can’t just take him. He’s full of needles.”

Moody’s brows knitted. “Needles?”

“It’s a Muggle hospital, Mr. Moody,” Hermione said. “The doctors don’t carry wands. I’ll have to take these out of him, before you leave. And for that, I need room to work. If you’ll bear witness that I’m doing nothing to tamper with your suspect, I would like Mr. Weasley and Minister Scrimgeour to leave.”

Neither man left, but rather went to stand in the door. They faced away from the bed. Each seemed to be trying his best to ignore the presence of the other.

She turned to Snape. He saw that some of her color was back. He noticed that her eyebrows were brown, at odds with her red hair. “You’re going to a wizarding hospital, Professor,” she said. “There won’t be any IV’s.”

Snape nodded at his left arm, and the remote discarded beside it. “There will, I trust, be an acceptable substitute for morphine?”

“Yes, sir,” she said. She gave him a level glance. “Would you like another dose now, before you leave?”

He knew what she truly intended: Pain medication might help now, if they try to hurt you later. He shook his head. “I prefer to be alert, thank you.”

She snorted. “That may be the first time you have sincerely thanked me for anything, Professor,” she said. She began unrolling the gauze on his left wrist. She was careful to avoid the tattoo, he noticed. Finally, there was only a piece of tape, some cotton, and the needle sprouting from his skin. He didn’t particularly enjoy seeing the needles, and focused instead on her face.

“Oh? Did we know each other?”

She nodded. “You’ve been my teacher for almost seven years, sir.” He felt it, rather than saw it, when she withdrew his morphine drip.

“Rhetoric?”

She gave him a ghost of a smile. “Potions, sir.” Then she crossed to the other side of the trolley. She looked at his throat. “Could you please turn a little? I need to pull out the feeding lines.”

“And you may do so, after you find some gauze to stanch the bleeding with, for afterwards.”

She found some in a nearby tray, along with some tape and an alcohol wipe. Snape had time to watch Moody’s face while she busied herself exposing the tubes leading to his throat. Slowly, his face registered horror and revulsion as she peeled back the gauze holding the feeding lines in place. He had no idea what they looked like, only that it must have seemed very bad. He noticed that Hermione had slipped on a pair of latex gloves.

“Have you ever done medical work, Hermione?” he asked.

“My parents are dentists, sir. I’m familiar with hygienic protocols.”

“Dentists, you say? Can they repair my teeth?”

“You need a periodontist, sir. They’re different.” He felt her ease the first tube out. It was a thicker needle, and so he felt a strange half-itch, half-tickle when she removed it. “Are you in any pain, sir?”

“No more so than usual. Please continue.” He swallowed, experimentally. Nothing happened—he had somehow feared that his whole throat would rip open the moment he did so. “Was I your favorite teacher?”

“No, sir. It was difficult for me to like you, because you hated me so much.”

That was a surprise. Any theories he might have possessed about personal loyalty quickly evaporated. “Why did I hate you?”

She smiled ruefully. “I wish I knew, sir.”

“Did you at least earn good marks?”

“Top marks, sir,” she said, and slid the next needle out without nearly the same finesse as the first.

“There’s no need for passive aggression; I simply asked because I do not remember.” He swallowed again. The holes in his throat felt more pronounced, now. “If not loyalty to me, then why are you doing this?” he asked, in a significantly lower tone.

Her hands paused. “Loyalty to the man you’re accused of killing,” she said, finally. She withdrew the third needle. He heard her rip open the alcohol wipe. “And, loyalty to what he believed in.” The alcohol stung mightily.

“You knew him, too?”

“Yes, sir. He was the Headmaster at our school. He was your employer.”

“Did he refuse me a promotion?”

“No, sir. You were under the influence of a psychopathic, megalomaniacal Dark wizard with plans for global genocide.”

And with that, she bandaged him, and declared him fit for travel.

∆

There was a pop, and all three vanished.

A great tide of adrenaline washed over Hermione, and she sagged against the bed. Her hands shook visibly. Her heart pounded painfully inside her chest. Her breath came fast and light. “I…”

“Hermione, it’s all right, it’s over,” Arthur said. He crossed to her and draped an arm over her shoulder.

“I feel sick…”

Arthur’s hand ran up and down her back. “Take deep breaths.”

She willed herself to take great gulps of air. Her teeth chattered. “What was I thinking?” she said. “How could I have said those things…to the Minister of all people…?”

A horrible thought occurred to her. She stared at Arthur. “Do you think I’ve lost you your position?”

“Hermione, I’m a grown-up. I can get sacked all by myself, thank you.”

She laughed, and with the laughter came tears. Soon she was crying, and feeling ashamed for doing so—a feeling that only doubled when Arthur put both arms around her and rested his chin on her head. “’S’all right, Hermione,” he said. “You did a brave thing. Albus would be very proud. I know I am.”

She only sobbed harder. “I just got so angry, and I was scared…”

“You thought Scrimgeour was going to hurt you?”

She shook her head. Arthur’s jumper itched against her forehead, and it smelled like a charity shop. “No. But, I was really afraid Moody was going to kill him—Professor Snape—right in front of me, and I wouldn’t be able to do anything…” She dissolved into fresh tears.

Arthur rocked her back and forth, shifting weight from one foot to the other. He remained silent. Briefly, she considered the incongruity of finding herself being cuddled by her best friend’s dad, and then she pushed it out of her mind. Arthur was good and kind and gentle, and he had been there—he had seen everything happen. He understood. Her tears had abated when he finally said: “Now you know how Harry feels.”

“He’s going to be really mad at me, isn’t he?” Hermione asked. “For defending Professor Snape, I mean.”

“Probably,” Arthur said. It was more of a sigh than a word. He sounded exhausted. “But Harry’s angry at a lot of things. It must be hard for him to keep track.” He grasped Hermione by the shoulders, and pushed her away a little until he looked her in the face. “What you did was very important,” he said, “and the Order is going to need you, now. We need to go home, and tell everyone the facts.”

“And then?”

“Then I think we should find Severus a solicitor.” He smiled tiredly. “But first, some tea.”

∆

They came home to a full house. Professor McGonagall sat in the Weasley parlor quite literally on the edge of her seat, her hands tightly folded in her lap. Tonks remained, seated next to Remus Lupin, who looked only slightly less pathetic than Professor Snape had in his thin hospital gown. The scent of frying bacon filled the air. From upstairs, Hermione heard Fred and George’s signature bantering.

“Ginny, I need help buttering the bread-” Molly emerged from the kitchen and her mouth fell open, upon seeing her husband. She rushed him immediately, and clasped him tight.

“You’re all right,” she whispered.

“My love, I think I can survive a duel with a man who’s already in hospital,” Arthur said, and gently detached from her. He gave her a little kiss on the forehead before turning to the others. Molly bustled back into the kitchen. “Hello Remus, good to see you. Minerva,” he added, nodding. The older woman nodded in return.

“Won-Won, Hermione’s back,” Fred called loudly. Hermione heard him go “Oof!” suddenly, as though something had been thrown in his direction.

Arthur squinted out the windows. “Goodness, is it nearly dawn already? Molly, could you put the kettle-”

“Already on the trivet, darling.” Belatedly, Arthur seemed to notice the cups of tea in his guests’ hands. Rolling his eyes, he made for the trivet on the sideboard and poured out two cups. “What’ll you take, Hermione?”

“Er…” She could barely think of tea at the moment—Professor McGonagall’s white face told her that she was not interested in the contents of her student’s stomach, but in what had transpired at Whipps Cross. Claiming she needed to settle the Headmaster’s affairs, she had declined an invitation to Bill and Fleur’s wedding. This was the first time Hermione had seen her since the funeral. For once, the professor looked her age, as though time had suddenly caught up with her since the Headmaster’s death.

“Plenty of milk and sugar, then, just like mine,” Arthur said, and handed her a cup. Numbly, she took it between her fingers and found a chair. A creak sounded on the stairs, and she saw Harry, Ron, Ginny, and the twins slowly trooping down them. Harry was last, and he claimed a seat near the top of the stairs. Ron sank down two steps below him, and Ginny followed suit. Only Fred and George made it down all the way, and they refreshed their teacups.

“Mum, you should really start catering our sales meetings,” George said. He reached for a plain white jar. Its lid snapped down across his fingers abruptly.

“Those biscuits are for guests, George, not you,” Molly said. “Come in here and slice tomatoes.”

“I’ve told you a thousand times, Mum, you can just Charm the knives…” He trailed off, and wandered into the kitchen. A moment later, Hermione heard the sound of steel hitting wood.

“Cheese and apple, Hermione?” Fred said, extending a plate. “The clock just moved from ‘Mortal Peril’ a few minutes ago, you know. Time to celebrate, I think.”

She flushed. Taking the plate from him, she said: “We were never in mortal peril, we just-”

“Not a word, until I’ve served these!” Molly insisted. She marched into the parlor bearing a tray piled high with bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches. Hurriedly, she set the tray on the sideboard and slapped Fred’s hand away when he dove for a sandwich. “Guests first!”

Tonks made for the sandwiches. She put two on one plate and one on another, and handed the double-load to Remus. “Mum made a rule, while you were away,” Ginny said, taking Hermione’s plate from her. “She didn’t want to miss anything.” She leaned down, and whispered in Hermione’s ear. “And don’t worry about that old clock. It’s calibrated to Mum’s idea of mortal peril, anyway, and you know how she is.” Without another word, she re-filled Hermione’s plate, and handed it back to her. “Sandwich, Harry?” she called.

Harry looked pointedly in the other direction, and did not answer. “Prick,” Ginny muttered.

When the rest had sandwiches and more tea, McGonagall asked the question that she had quite plainly been dying to ask: “Well?”

Arthur launched into a detailed explanation. Every few words, Molly interrupted with a gasp. When she did not, Fred and George asked their father to repeat Snape’s exact words over again: “Who knew he thought that of the Minister?”

“I did,” Professor McGonagall said, thinly. “Go on, Arthur.”

Arthur continued the story, and now Hermione earned the astonishment: Ron literally spit his tea in surprise. “You really said that?” he asked. “You told him you’d go to Rita Skeeter?”

“And the Lovegoods,” Hermione said, hollowly. “And then, he… Well, he sort of…”

“Advanced on her,” Arthur said.

Tonks’ hair flared red. “He what?”

“His wand wasn’t drawn, not to worry,” Hermione said. “It was just words. He was trying to frighten me, and I knew it. I knew he wouldn’t really hurt me—that would be political suicide.” She swallowed. “He was telling me how if I threatened him again, he’d do something, and then Professor Snape interrupted him.”

“Pulled you out of harm’s way, you mean,” Arthur said.

Professor McGonagall frowned, and looked between them. “Severus did what, exactly?”

“Well, Minister Scrimgeour was leaning in very close, saying nasty things, and Professor Snape just put his hand on my wrist, and told me to come over to him,” Hermione said. Absently, she rubbed her left wrist where Snape’s hand had touched it. “I think he just wanted to break the tension—steal Scrimgeour’s thunder, sort of.”

“And afterward?”

“After that, I told Minister Scrimgeour that if he threatened me again, the whole wizarding world would…find out what Harry really thinks of him.” She heard Harry’s snort from the stairs. She turned to him. “Harry, I’m sorry, but I needed to scare him-”

“Sure. Fine. Volunteer my services, Hermione. Everyone else does it.” Harry stood up, and stalked into his room. The door slammed. As one, those assembled flinched.

An awkward silence ensued, until Professor McGonagall broke it: “And after that?”

“Minister Scrimgeour told Moody to arrest Professor Snape, and I told him that he couldn’t, because of Professor Snape’s IVs. He let me extract the needles, before they left.”

Remus shuddered. “Needles?”

“It’s sickening,” Arthur said. “But Hermione did very well.”

“It was just extracting them. Inserting them is harder.”

Remus tilted his head. For a moment, he reminded Hermione of an inquisitive puppy, and she had just enough time to realize how apt the metaphor was before he opened his mouth. “What did Severus do after taking your hand, Hermione?”

“He… He kept it there,” she said, surprised that she had not realized this earlier. “He held my hand, until I extracted the needles.”

“And while you were extracting them?”

“He asked me how we knew each other. Then he asked if he was my favorite teacher, and I told him no, and that he never seemed to like me, either. Then he asked me why I had come, if I didn’t like him, and I said that I had done it for the Headmaster.”

“What was his response?” Professor McGonagall asked.

“He asked who the Headmaster was.”

The Gryffindor Head of House sank back in her chair. Her eyes found the ceiling. Remus hunched forward, and buried his head in his hands. George crunched an apple. “Do you really think he’s forgotten it all, Hermione?”

“I know he has,” Tonks interjected.

“Nymphadora, please,” Professor McGonagall said.

“No, she’s right,” Hermione said. “It’s hard to be sure, but…there’s definitely something different about him.”

“Well, he was holding your hand,” Fred said. “The day Snape holds any woman’s hand I think we should all start preparing to ice-skate in hell.”

“Boys,” Arthur said. He looked at the assorted parties in his sitting room. “We have a lot of work to do,” he said, carefully. “First, I think we should deploy someone to St. Mungo’s, to check whether Scrimgeour made good on his promise.”

“They’ll probably keep his arrival secret, even if the Minister did keep his word,” Tonks said.

“But there will still be gossip,” Molly said. “Nothing stays secret at St. Mungo’s.” When the others stared openly at her, she added: “Oh, you try raising my boys and not spending half your life there. I knew the nurses by their first names!”

“Well, looks like we’re off, Moony,” Tonks said, jumping up. She spilled a little tea on herself in the process, but didn’t seem to notice.

“Me? But-”

“You need more Wolfsbane potion! It’s time to renew your prescription!”

Lupin frowned. “No, it’s not, I just…oh.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I used to be much better at this, you know.” Wearily, he stood up.

“Oh yes, you’re such a terribly old man, I know—we’ll fetch you a cane and a bromide while we’re out,” Tonks teased. She grasped his arm with one hand, and took a pinch of Floo powder in the other. “Well, we’re off,” she said. Indicating her destination, she vanished in a flash of green flame.

Lupin looked a little green, himself. “Good luck,” the twins said in unison.

“Thanks,” Lupin said, with no small amount of sarcasm, before he too disappeared.

Arthur watched them go. Then he turned to the others. “There’s another matter. Severus will need legal representation-”

“You can’t be serious!” Ron interrupted. “Let him find his own lawyer!”

“I’ll thank you not to interrupt your father in my presence, Mr. Weasley,” Professor McGonagall said. She looked at Arthur. “I anticipated this eventuality, and took the liberty of obtaining Severus’ file. He never mentioned a solicitor to me, but he may have one listed here.” She took a stamp-sized cylinder from one pocket. With a tap of her wand, the file appeared. It was a massive scroll.

“What are all those other things, sticking out of it?” Ginny asked.

“Complaints from Mr. Longbottom’s grandmother,” McGonagall said crisply.

The thought that Neville’s gran had been firing off complaints about the man who so thoroughly terrorized him warmed Hermione a little. She had a feeling Neville had no idea his gran cared so much. She felt herself smiling, as McGonagall unrolled the scroll.

“Complaints, complaints…commendations, from Mr. Malfoy…ah, here they are.” She held aloft a sheaf of papers bearing the Hogwarts letterhead. A blue envelope fell out of them and landed on the floor, where it promptly began shrieking in high, infantile squalls. The envelope’s lip flew up and down in time to each cry: one long, two short. After a second—as though the envelope had paused for breath—the shrieks renewed.

McGonagall raised her wand skyward. “Albus Dumbledore, when next we meet, you are getting an earful!” With that, she levitated the envelope, and opened it. Blue sparks shot forth, forming the words “IT’S A BOY!”

Molly stared. “Is that…Severus’ birth announcement?”

“Yes, please hold it,” McGonagall said curtly, directing the envelope in Molly’s direction. Molly held the paper carefully, and the cries immediately subsided into contented murmurs. McGonagall produced another document, this one bearing the St. Mungo’s letterhead, with a tiny wiggling foot in one corner. “Severus Isaac Snape,” she read. “Born 9 January 1959 to Eileen Prince Snape and Tobias Abraham Snape...Spinner’s End…” Shaking her head, she let the document go and picked up another set.

“What are those?” Hermione asked.

“Tax information, and emergency forms,” McGonagall answered. She clicked her tongue. “Severus, you little bastard.”

“What’s wrong?” Arthur asked.

“When he was hired, Severus had to fill out a form indicating who the school should contact if something happened to him,” McGonagall answered. “He listed Albus.”

“He was asking about family,” Hermione said. “Does he really not have any?”

“Eileen Prince was an only child, and estranged from her parents,” McGonagall answered. “The Princes did not take kindly to her marrying a Muggle.”

“What about Professor Snape’s father?”

McGonagall thumbed through more pages. “Ah. It says here his name was not originally Snape. He was born Tobiasz Abraham Szcezepanak.” She tilted her head at the page. “He left Poland in 1946. It doesn’t say why.”

Hermione felt a hot lump form in her throat. “It doesn’t?” she asked. Her voice sounded pitifully small. “Does it say anything else about his family?”

“There were two parents, and a younger sister, and an aunt and uncle with three children of their own. It says here that they all lived in the same apartment, in 1939. There’s no record of them, after June 1941.”

Hermione’s hand rose to cover her mouth. Whimpers escaped her lips. “Miss Granger, what’s wrong?” McGonagall asked.

“I have to be sick,” Hermione said, and bolted for the bathroom. Soon the remnants of bacon, tea, and tomato were there for her to see, and she vomited again. Hot tears welled up. For the second time that night she cried in earnest. She heard a knock on the door, and Ron’s voice: “’Mione? What’s wrong?”

Oh, it’s nothing, Ron. It’s just that I’ve figured out how Professor Snape always manages to survive. You see, his father probably survived a concentration camp.