“Miss Granger,” he drawled, his voice low and cutting. “What, precisely, are you doing in an unused cssroom at this hour? I trust your expnation will be both thorough and sufficiently creative to justify your presence.”

  Snape’s dark eyes narrowed as Hermione clutched the bloodied cloth in her hand. She forced herself to stay calm, willing her breathing to steady as she extended the cloth toward him.

  “I was studying runes, Professor,” she said, her voice as even as she could manage. “I slipped off the chair while reaching for my notes, and I cut my hand on a shard of crystal. It was clumsy, but nothing more.” She turned her palm upward, showing him the injury.

  Snape’s gaze flicked to the bloodied cloth, then to her hand, scrutinizing both with the sharpness of a predator sensing prey. His expression remained impassive, but the silence stretched unbearably.

  “Studying runes,” he repeated slowly, his tone dripping with skepticism. He stepped closer, towering over her. “Miss Granger, I am well aware of your tendency to immerse yourself in extracurricur pursuits. What, pray tell, could be so riveting about runes that you felt the need to hide in a forgotten corner of the dungeons?”

  Hermione straightened, forcing herself to meet his gaze despite the lump forming in her throat. “I wasn’t hiding, Professor. The library was crowded, and I needed somewhere quiet to concentrate. I was simply trying to understand the retionships between different rune groupings.” She gestured toward her scattered notes, keeping her expnation as simple and pusible as possible.

  Snape’s sharp gaze swept over Hermione’s notes, his long fingers lifting one sheet delicately as if the parchment itself might reveal her intentions. His eyes scanned the diagrams with practiced ease, his brow furrowing ever so slightly as he deciphered the runic arrays sketched in neat, meticulous handwriting.

  The symbols were advanced for a second-year—too advanced—and they all pointed to one conclusion: protective enchantments. Layer upon yer of them, some designed to repel, others to absorb or redirect energy.

  On the desk, near the edge where her cleaning had been rushed, he spotted a faint glimmer: the unmistakable sheen of crushed gemstone powder. He leaned closer, letting the light catch the fragments, and his lips thinned in understanding.

  Crystals. Runes. Protective wards. Combined with the injury on her hand, the pieces were forming a picture.

  “Curious,” he thought, his mind sharp and analytical. Hermione Granger was intelligent—uncommonly so—and relentless in her pursuit of knowledge, but her choices here suggested more than mere academic curiosity.

  He gnced briefly at Hermione, who stood stiffly by the table, her hands csped in front of her as if trying to appear innocent. She avoided his gaze, her posture betraying a mix of defiance and apprehension.

  Why would she need protection? Snape’s thoughts swirled as he considered her recent behaviour. She knew Hector had died, seeing as she had received the heir ring, she must know this, so who else is after her? Or does she believe Hector had an accomplice.

  Snape’s dark eyes flicked to the crushed gemstones, then back to the intricate rune diagrams. Protective enchantments. Not the typical dabbling of an ambitious second-year Slytherin, even one as precocious as Hermione Granger.

  Why would she need protection?

  Snape’s thoughts churned as he pieced together the implications. She had inherited Hector Dagworth-Granger’s heir ring—there was no doubt she was aware of his death. The rituals and traditions surrounding inheritance among pureblood families left no room for ambiguity. She must know.

  But her actions suggested more than mere acknowledgment of her newfound status. The focus on protective magic—yered, meticulous, and advanced—hinted at paranoia.

  Does she believe Hector had an accomplice? Snape’s brow furrowed. Or does she think she has been marked as a target herself?

  The idea wasn’t entirely unfounded. Slytherin House was a web of alliances, rivalries, and hidden agendas. A young heir, especially one as unexpectedly clever as Hermione, would attract attention. Dagworth-Granger’s death had created a vacuum, and the question of whether someone might challenge her position or attempt to tie her into an alliance wasn’t hypothetical—it was inevitable.

  Still, her behaviour suggested more than just political manoeuvring. The sheer complexity of the runes betrayed urgency, even desperation. Did she know more than she let on? Snape’s fingers tightened slightly on the edge of the parchment he held.

  And why hadn’t she come to him?

  He was her Head of House. His position, his knowledge of the darker intricacies of magic, made him the obvious person to whom a Slytherin in her situation would turn. Had she not considered him an ally? Or—his gaze sharpened slightly—did she suspect him of something?

  No. If she had any inkling of his involvement in Hector’s death, she wouldn’t be working alone in this forgotten dungeon room. She’d be far more careful—or far more vocal.

  Hermione stood rigid by the table, her expression carefully composed, but Snape could see the tension in the slight clench of her jaw, the way her injured hand hung awkwardly by her side.

  “Tell me, Miss Granger,” he said, his voice low and sharp, “why a second-year student is concerning herself with protective magic of this nature. Surely the rigors of your coursework provide enough challenge without delving into... extracurricur pursuits.”

  Hermione’s eyes widened briefly before narrowing in determination. “Sir, I think we both know, that the coursework assigned to second years is designed so that even.. dunderheaded students, can learn how to not blow themselves up. Inferring it would be remotely challenging is somewhat insulting."

  Snape’s eyebrows arched ever so slightly at her audacious response, though his expression remained otherwise inscrutable. The faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth suggested he might have found her retort almost amusing—if it weren’t so bold.

  “Dunderheaded students, Miss Granger?” he repeated, his voice silken and dangerous. “How fortunate, then, that you consider yourself above such a cssification. Though one might argue,” he added with a pointed gnce at the bloodied cloth and scattered tools, “that your current predicament suggests otherwise.”

  Hermione flushed but refused to back down. “With respect, Professor, I simply meant that some of us—those who take our education seriously—need to go beyond the basics if we’re to be adequately prepared for the real world.”

  Snape’s eyes narrowed, his voice dropping further. “And what, precisely, do you imagine the ‘real world’ requires of you, Miss Granger? Do you foresee yourself in the heat of a duel, relying on these,” he gestured dismissively to the diagrams, “to save your skin?”

  Hermione straightened, her chin lifting slightly. “Better to have and not need, than to be caught short, sir.”

  Snape studied her for a long moment, his dark eyes calcuting. Finally, he stepped back, his tone soft but cutting. “Ambition is a double-edged sword, Miss Granger. You wield it with determination—but also with hubris. That bde will turn on you if you are not careful. Curfew is almost in effect Miss Granger, I would recommend you get back to the common room before you are caught."