Chapter Text
Hermione Jean Granger had never failed at anything.
This was not arrogance, it was simply a fact. From the moment she received her Hogwarts letter, she had devoured books about magic the way other children devoured sweets. She read every textbook cover to cover before term even began. She practiced wand movements in her bedroom mirror until her wrist ached. She had, at age thirteen, time-traveled simply because she refused to accept that a normal schedule couldn't accommodate all the subjects she wanted to master.
"Extraordinary," Professor McGonagall had called her, after witnessing her conjure a perfect Evanesco in her third year. "Truly the finest mind I've seen in decades."
"Brilliant," Professor Flitwick had said, when she'd mastered the Summoning Charm before anyone else in their year. "Absolutely brilliant."
Even Snape, who hated her, who sneered at her and docked points for being an 'insufferable know-it-all.' He had never been able to deny her results. Her potions were perfect. Her essays were flawless. Her exam scores were the highest in the year, every single year. He'd call her a swot and a teacher's pet, but he'd still give her an Outstanding.
Because she earned it. Because she was Hermione Granger, and Hermione Granger did not fail.
She remembered sitting in the Gryffindor common room during their fourth year, surrounded by books, while Ron and Harry played Exploding Snap. Ron had looked over at her, shaking his head in that fond, exasperated way of his.
"You're mental, you are. Who needs that many classes?"
"I do," she'd said, without looking up. "I want to learn everything."
"Why?"
"Because I can."
It was that simple. She had been given a gift of magic, a world of wonder, a chance to be something more than the daughter of dentists from Hampstead and she refused to waste it. She worked harder than anyone because she could work harder, because she had something to prove and because she was Muggle-born, and every pureblood who sneered at her was just more fuel for the fire.
Her identity had been built on this foundation of smart, capable and unbeatable.
"The greatest witch of her generation," Dumbledore had said once with that twinkling smile.
Well, everyone was wrong and it started with Horace Slughorn.
Not that the man was bad at teaching. He was charming, gregarious, and utterly uninterested in rigor. He taught Potions the way a grandmother might teach baking: a pinch of this, a dash of that, good enough for government work. He praised effort over results. He patted shoulders and dispensed vague encouragement.
"Excellent attempt, my dear. Next time, perhaps a bit more wrist action."
"Almost there, Miss Granger. Don't fret."
Don't fret?!
Hermione had never fretted. She had excelled. But suddenly, inexplicably, her potions were curdling. Her Draught of Living Death, emerged from her cauldron the color of weak tea. Her Amortentia smelled like nothing at all. Her Shrinking Solution shrank everything but the intended target.
She followed the textbook perfectly. The Advanced Potion-Making, was sitting open on her workbench, its instructions pristine and authoritative. She measured exactly and stirred precisely. She added ingredients in the correct order, at the correct intervals, at the correct temperature and it still went wrong.
Meanwhile, Harry... he was producing potions so flawless that Slughorn was practically glowing with pride.
"Excellent, my boy! A natural talent, you've got! I haven't seen a Draught of Living Death this clear since... well, since my own schooldays, if I do say so myself!"
Hermione had stared at Harry's cauldron, her jaw tight enough to crack teeth. Harry, who had spent five years struggling under Snape. Harry, who had needed her help on every single assignment. Harry, who couldn't tell a bezoar from a dried shrake spine, was suddenly a Potions prodigy.
Even Ron had noticed, whistling low and muttering, "Blimey, mate, you've gone and become Snape's golden boy without him here."
Harry had laughed it off, crediting 'a bit of luck' and that battered old textbook he carried everywhere. But Hermione knew better. Something was off. And the more she tried to match his results, the worse her own potions became. Each failure burned hotter than the last.
She'd tried to do better. Merlin knows she did. She'd spent hours in the library, cross-referencing alternate texts, reading obscure Potions journals, experimenting with different techniques. She'd begged Slughorn for extra guidance, but he'd just smiled vaguely and told her to 'keep at it.'
Nothing worked. Her potions remained subpar and confidence crumbled. And Harry's kept rising.
The breaking point came on a Thursday.
Slughorn had assigned an Essence of Insanity, a rather difficult brew that Hermione had never made before. She'd followed the textbook. She'd stirred the required times counter-clockwise. She'd added the frog brains at precisely the right moment and the result was a thick, gray sludge that smoked ominously.
Harry, meanwhile, had produced a vibrant green potion that shimmered like liquid emeralds. Slughorn had beamed at him, clapped him on the back, and offered him an invitation to his next Slug Club dinner.
"Your skills are truly remarkable, Harry. Quite remarkable."
Hermione had watched, her hand trembling over her cauldron. Her cheeks burned and her eyes stung.
She'd fled the dungeon the moment class ended, not even waiting for Ron. She'd walked straight to the library, found the most isolated table in the Restricted Section, and sat there in the dark, staring at her Potions textbook.
Why?
She'd done everything right. Everything. She'd followed the rules. She'd studied harder than anyone. She'd earned her place at the top through sheer determination and intelligence.
And now she was here, failing. While her best friend, who'd spent years asking her for help was now thriving. For her, it wasn't fair.
Her mother had always told her that life wasn't fair. Hermione had never believed it. She'd always thought that if you worked hard enough, you could overcome anything.
But this? This was different. This was a system rigged against her.
By the time she got back to the Gryffindor common room the chimney fire had burned low, and a decision had crystallized into something sharp and desperate.
This cannot continue.
If Slughorn couldn't teach her properly, then she would go elsewhere. There was only one person at Hogwarts who truly understood Potions on the level she needed. The same man who had sneered at her for six years. The same man now teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts: Severus Snape.
He would never help her. He'd sneer at her, mock her, probably give her detention just for asking. But she had no other options.
She barely slept that night. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt the sting of her own failure burning in her throat.
By morning, she was exhausted, hollow-eyed, and absolutely certain. She made her way to the Great Hall for breakfast, sliding into her usual seat across Harry and besides Ron.
"Morning, Hermione," Ron said through a mouthful of sausage. "You look terrible."
"Thank you, Ron. You're a poet."
"I mean it. You've got bags under your eyes the size of—"
"Ronald." She fixed him with a look that could curdle milk. "Finish your breakfast."
Harry glanced up to her from his toast. His expression was concerned, the way it always was when he noticed she wasn't performing at her usual standard. "Hermione, are you okay? You left class so fast yesterday. We couldn't find you."
"I was in the library," she said flatly. "Studying."
"Studying what?" Ron asked, finally swallowing. "You already know everything."
"Clearly, I don't," she snapped. Then, softer, "I'm fine. I just need to figure something out."
Harry and Ron exchanged a look. They didn't understand and couldn't. Ron had never cared about academic perfection the way she did, and Harry... well, he seemed to always do fine somehow.
The morning passed in a blur of classes she barely registered. Charms was fine as well as Transfiguration. History of Magic was... well, Binns was Binns.
Then came Potions. Slughorn had assigned a Wit-Sharpening Potion. Simple enough. Yet when Slughorn peered into her cauldron, his bushy eyebrows drew together in mild disappointment.
"Mm, a bit murky, Miss Granger. The color should be a clearer periwinkle. Still, good effort!"
She didn't wait for the class to end this time. The moment Slughorn dismissed them, she packed her bag with jerky movements and left.
"Hermione, wait up!" Ron called from behind her.
She didn't slow down. She pushed through the dungeon door and into the corridor, her footsteps echoing against the stone walls.
Lunch was unbearable. She sat at the Gryffindor table, pushing a fork through her mashed potatoes without actually eating. Harry and Ron were deep in conversation about Quidditch, their voices a dull hum in the background. She barely heard them.
"—and then Ginny nearly took McLaggen's head off with that Bludger, it was brilliant," Ron finished, mouth full. He swallowed and finally looked at her. "You alright, Hermione? You've been dead quiet since Potions."
"I'm fine," she said automatically, forcing a small smile. It felt brittle. "Just... thinking about the next essay."
She glanced up at the staff table out of habit. Professors were scattered across it: McGonagall reading a letter, Flitwick chatting animatedly with Sprout, Hagrid wrestling with a steak knife. But one seat was conspicuously empty.
Snape's seat.
That was it, her opportunity. Snape had retained his old office in the dungeons. Professor Slughorn had taken one look at the damp, gloomy space and promptly claimed the more comfortable quarters near the kitchens instead. The arrangement suited everyone, apparently. And it suited Hermione more.
She could slip down there during lunch without drawing attention. Or at least, without drawing the wrong kind of attention. Technically, she wasn't doing anything wrong but the idea of Hermione Granger voluntarily seeking out the dungeon's bat would strike Harry and Ron as deeply, worryingly odd.
Hermione set her fork down with a soft clink and stood abruptly, smoothing her robes.
Ron blinked up at her, startled. "Where are you going? Pudding's not even out yet."
"I'm going to fix my situation," she said simply, already turning away. "I'll see you both later."
The corridors grew colder and darker as she descended. By the time she reached the familiar stretch of dungeon wall outside Snape's office, her heart was hammering against her ribs. She paused for a moment, breathing deeply, then raised her hand and knocked firmly on the heavy oak door.
She'd stood here so many times before. For detentions, assignments and the occasional moment when Snape had summoned her to berate her about something or other.
There was a long silence. Then a low, unmistakable voice from within: "Enter."
Hermione swallowed hard, turned the handle, and stepped inside.
Snape's office was exactly as she remembered it: dimly lit, lined with shelves of jars containing strange, floating specimens, and permeated by the faint, acrid scent of old potions and parchment. Professor Snape sat behind his large desk, a stack of essays before him, quill scratching steadily across the page.
He didn't look up when she entered. His quill scratched across a parchment, his dark hair falling forward, obscuring his face. He was grading essays, clearly, his long fingers moving with practiced precision.
Hermione stood awkwardly just inside the doorway, hands clasped tightly in front of her. She waited for him to stop and look at her but Snape's quill continued its steady rhythm.
"Professor Snape?" she said at last, her voice steadier than she felt.
Snape's head lifted slowly, his dark eyes fixing on her with an expression of cold, calculated disinterest. His gaze swept over her rumpled robes, the tired eyes, the nervous fidgeting and for a brief moment something like surprise crossed his dark eyes. Hermione Granger, here, in his office, of her own volition? She had not sought him out for questions in years. Not since her second or third year, when her relentless hand-raising had finally earned her nothing but biting sarcasm and deducted points. She had learned, eventually, to direct her endless curiosity elsewhere.
Yet here she was.
He set the quill down with deliberate care and leaned back in his chair, regarding her with his usual cold, unreadable expression.
"To what do I owe this... unexpected visit, Miss Granger?"
Hermione took a two small steps forward. "I've come to ask for your help, sir. With Potions."
Snape's expression did not change, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.
"I am no longer the Potions master, as I'm certain you are aware. Professor Slughorn holds that position. If you require assistance, you will take it up with him."
"I have, sir," she said quickly. "Multiple times. But my results keep... failing. No matter how precisely I follow the instructions, the potions are wrong. Harry is producing perfect brews, and I—" She stopped, cheeks burning. "I thought perhaps you might be willing to offer some guidance. Just once. Or... point me toward a better approach. Because I'm—"
"Failing?" His voice was flat. "How distressing for you." The sneer in his tone made her flinch, but she pressed on.
"I know you're not teaching Potions anymore. But you were the Potions Master for fifteen years. You know more than anyone. If you could just—"
"Just what?" He stood abruptly, moving around the desk to face her. His robes billowed behind him. "Just give you private lessons? Just ignore the fact that I have a curriculum of my own to manage? Just set aside my responsibilities because Hermione Granger cannot bear the indignity of mediocrity?"
"It's not about indignity—"
"Isn't it?" He stepped closer, his voice dropping to something silken and dangerous. "You have spent six years being the best. The brightest. The most insufferable know-it-all in the history of Hogwarts. And now, for the first time, someone has outshone you. Your own friend, no less. And you cannot stand it."
Her cheeks burned. "That's not true."
"Are you sure?" His eyes glittered in the firelight. "Potter, whom you have always helped, always corrected, always guided is suddenly superior at something, zomething that matters to you. And rather than celebrating his success, you rush to me, desperate to reclaim your throne."
"I'm not—"
"Tell me, Miss Granger." He circled her now, his voice soft and cruel. "What exactly do you feel when you see him triumph? Pride? Joy? Or something far less noble?"
Her throat tightened. "I feel frustrated."
"Frustrated." He stopped, facing her directly. "How very honest of you. But let's be more precise, shall we? You feel humiliated. You feel jealous. You feel angry that someone else, someone you consider intellectually inferior has surpassed you. And you cannot bear the thought that perhaps, just perhaps, you are not as exceptional as you believed."
"Stop it," she whispered.
"Am I wrong?" He tilted his head, his dark eyes boring into hers. "You are so consumed by your own ego that you cannot see the simple truth. Potter is finally demonstrating some modicum of competence and instead of being happy for him, you want to tear him down. You want to be better than him. You want to be the best, always, no matter what it costs."
Her eyes stung, making her blinked rapidly.
Snape's voice dropped lower. "What kind of friend does that make you?"
The question hit her like a physical blow.
She opened her mouth to argue, to defend herself, but no words came. Because somewhere, deep in the recesses of her mind, a small, insidious voice whispered: He's right.
Was that truly how it looked? Was she really that desperate to be the best? Had she been so consumed by her own identity as the 'brightest witch of her age' that Harry's success felt like a personal failure? The questions crashed over her in a sickening wave. For a moment she wanted to turn and flee.
She thought of Harry. Her best friend. The boy who had faced Voldemort, who had lost his parents, who had carried the weight of the entire wizarding world on his shoulders. And now, for the first time, he had something to be proud of. Something he was actually good at and she wanted to take that away from him.
She felt sick. But she had already been humiliated in front of Slughorn, in front of the entire class. Backing down now would only make it worse.
Hermione lifted her chin, eyes bright with unshed tears she refused to let fall, "That isn't true, sir. I'm not trying to undermine Harry. I just... I need to understand what I'm doing wrong. Please."
Snape’s eyes narrowed, "Five points from Gryffindor for your persistence in wasting my time."
She didn’t move, she didn’t even blink.
"Another five," he added coldly, "if you do not leave my office this instant." He threatened her, but Hermione remained rooted to the spot.
Snape exhaled sharply through his nose, clearly reaching the end of what little patience he possessed.
"Very well. Since you seem determined to make a spectacle of yourself, you will serve detention with me tomorrow evening. Eight o’clock sharp. And if you continue with that nonsense after detention, Miss Granger, I will ensure you regret it. Now get out."
Defeated, cheeks burning with shame and lingering hurt, Hermione gave a stiff nod. "Yes, sir."
She turned on her heel and left the office, the heavy door closing behind her with a dull thud that echoed down the empty corridor.