Under the Northern Star

Mornings were the best time. The sun never came fully up this high in the north, but each day was like a fresh slate, and every morning, Hermione hoped someone would write the words on her slate.

"A miracle! He didn't die after all; the body was fake. He has come back!"

'Don't be foolish,' she said to herself and looked out of the window. It was still dusky outside, even though it was nine in the morning. Many of her friends had been horrified that she would choose to go to such an obscure place where the polar night made sure there was next to no daylight during winter.

But she had wanted just that. She couldn't stand bright lights, deep colours, or sharp voices. She wanted to wrap herself in soft darkness to escape the life that tried to deliver her a crushing message every day. And besides, this was where Santa Claus lived. At least the locals were adamant about that the real Santa was nowhere near North Pole, but lived in his log cabin by Mount Ear. Masses of tourists flooded into the surrounding villages and hotels every year to see Santa and to experience the snowy world of wonder.

Happy laughter echoed from the corridor, and she started. Right. Breakfast. She had made a promise to herself to even try to eat something today. She had lived on fruit and nut bars and the odd cans of Coke for months. Not that she had been hungry: in the beginning, she hadn't been able to eat anything without retching. She still wasn't hungry, but her trousers had become so loose they had seriously frightened her.

The dazzling lights in the corridor ceiling bored into her sore eyes as she locked her door. Here in Lapland, almost every building was made of log, and this hotel was no exception. It was more an inn, actually, for someone who had been used to London's magnificent marble hotels.

She felt small and shabby among the other guests who were dressed in brightly-coloured ski overalls. There was a queue to the Reception, but she passed it and went to examine at the map near the door. A cold breeze fluttered the hem of her cardigan as a child of about ten dashed out.

A mop of red hair under a blue woollen cap.

She swallowed and turned away.

'Excuse me, where's the cafeteria?' she asked from a young girl in the gift shop. The girl smiled and pointed to the right, speaking English in the broad accent of the locals.

'Over there, go straight past the toilets.'

She obviously recognised her, and no wonder: to escape the silence, she had often come to the gift shop and spent ages browsing. She even had a stack of magazines in the native language in her room. Some nights she had sat on her bed, TV blasting, and tried to decipher the language from the articles. Just to keep her mind closed and focused.

'Thanks,' she said and left the shop. She followed the sign pointing towards the toilets and arrived at a cafeteria with windows opening to three directions. It was a cosy place, and she found herself wondering if it was open for most of the day.

Breakfast 7-10
Lunch 11-13
Dinner 17-19

As she skimmed through the sign by the door, she realised that she had only forty-five minutes left to have her meal. She took a wooden tray and walked to the counter, which was stocked with rolls, cheese, ham, vegetables, and yoghurts. She had a sudden craving for orange juice, and glancing around, she poured the remaining juice in a glass pitcher into two glasses. The ham looked slimy, and her stomach gurgled unpleasantly at the sight. Fine, just a roll then, and some butter. That was better than nothing, after all.

She turned hesitantly around, searching for a place to sit. Most tables were empty already, so she had plenty to choose from. Her natural instinct would have been to sit by the window, but the sight of the boy with the flaming hair was still fresh in her mind. She spotted a small table behind a decorative wall right in front of her, overlooking the door, and she made her way towards it. As she put her tray on the table, she noticed a nook with two more tables behind a large flower pot on the left. One of the tables was empty, but there was an occupant at the other one: the dark outline of a man sat sideways to her, half hidden behind another plant. She didn't pay attention to him, merely stared at the roll on her plate. She had to eat it. The butter shone pale yellow in its tiny plastic cup, bringing a taste of disgust in her mouth.

'Come on,' she said quietly. 'You used to like this stuff.'

Truly, she had. Her parents had been very strict about food, and maybe because of it, she had had a curious habit as a child to sneak to the kitchen and make herself slices and slices of buttery toast when her parents were at work. Mum would never have allowed her to eat butter with bread; it had to be margarine, as low fat as possible.
Then at Hogwarts she had always been able to have real butter, and her addiction had slowly waned away. Now it was inexistent.

'Am I really sitting here and pondering about butter?' she muttered and grabbed the knife. She would force down a roll even if it was the last thing she did.

Right then, the man in the shadows turned his face to her.

The knife clattered onto the plate and rolled to the floor. The whimper that escaped her lips would have been a cry had she not had to seize the table with both hands.

Severus Snape was staring at her between two leafy branches.