The Tale of the Nightshirt
Reverberation


The doors of the Ministry were far too thin. Contrary to his instinct, Snape paused at Granger’s door and absorbed the small sounds of sobs that filtered through. He’d merely meant to return the damned shirt, which he’d unconsciously taken with him; he’d wanted this… episode done with. But she’d needled him… and he’d reacted with a sledgehammer. Well, the chit ought to know better by now.

But he really hadn’t thought she’d be this… sensitive. She’d lost her temper last night; shouldn’t that have been the end of it?

Severus cast a Silencing Charm before sweeping down the corridor.

---

There was no sign of, well, anything the following day when he saw Hermione rushing through the halls with her customary energy. She nodded as she usually did when she passed him, the curls escaping her ties bouncing with the movement. He recalled the way they’d clouded around her torso, glowing against the grey… Lips thinning, he made his way outside; he’d several packages and notes for St. Mungo’s.

The next few weeks continued in this vein; he performed his tasks, and they greeted each other politely in passing. Aside from a few errant thoughts, life was back to normal.

---

“Seen Hermione lately?”

Snape stiffened before realizing that Potter was behind him, addressing the occupant of the next booth.

“Nope,” young Weasley’s food-stuffed voice answered. “Somethin’ wrong, Harry?”

“She’s at it again.” Potter sounded grim, and Severus frowned. At what again?

The silence was palpable. “Is it after-the-war bad?” Weasley, surprisingly, seemed just as serious.

“No. Not yet, anyway. But I’m not betting on anything.”

“Fucking hell. What happened? And when?”

“Like she’d say? And nobody else seems to know anything.” Potter’s frustration was… alarming next to Weasley’s rising hysteria. “But someone must, and I intend to find out who.”

---

Snape hated being half-informed, and nothing of the boys’ further conversation filled in the gaps. Granger was obviously in some sort of self-inflicted trouble, but what sort? He’d spent weeks in hospital after the war, but she’d seemed perfectly fine when he’d seen her afterwards. What didn’t he know? And why were those buffle-brains worried about her being ‘at it again?’ Oh, for the days when he could use Legilimancy and claim necessity as an excuse. But then, he didn’t need Legilimancy to ferret out information. In this case, he thought with a thin smile, he’d beat Potter to the punch.

---

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.

---

Minerva was a ridiculously easy mark. Just a modicum of subtle direction, and it was possible to discover nearly everything she knew about a subject— without her realizing that the information had been deliberately elicited. Gryffindors. Absolutely no sense of discretion, even when they knew they faced a Slytherin.

“Hermione was magnificent,” Minerva reminisced. “The child was everywhere— helping the wounded, organizing the chaos. She made an entire Auror squad stand down with a single glare.” Minerva’s expression, on a less dignified woman, would have been called a grin. “But then, Severus, she had an excellent teacher in that regard.”

---

Settling back in his chair, Severus made an idle connection between Minerva’s mention of the wounded and the ‘hospital’ headline he had seen, characteristically ignoring her amusment. To his surprise, the comment sobered Minerva thoroughly.

“Her visits weren’t entirely altruistic,” she said quietly. “She’d incurred more internal damage than we’d realized from Bellatrix’s curses.” Her lips thinned. “Hermione, poor child, needed quite a bit a healing and reversal done. I believe she would have gone in any case— goodness knows we were short-handed —but volunteering gave her a plausible reason in order to keep those bloody reporters from digging further.”

---

If there was one thing that Severus missed of Hogwarts, it was the miles of corridors that allowed him to pace with a certain sense of purpose as his mind untangled the snarls of his thoughts. The tiny house he'd moved into could only afford a charmed never-ending hallway.

Granger's memoir had severely downplayed her encounter with Bellatrix— understandable, but the idea… Severus was nearly physically ill to think of Hermione subjected to the extensive damage Bellatrix had been capable of. Perhaps… something… had triggered a relapse. Having hidden her treatment initially, doing so now would be easy— and logical.