A/N: I'm sorry this one took so long! School takes up a LOT of my time. And I'm still having some problems with my computer. *weeps softly* xP But here's the next chapter. Chapter ten will involve a trip to the hospital wing, which should prove interesting...

Oh, and pleeeeeeeease review, pretty please? A fluffy kitten is born every time you review. Honest. I swear. LOL

Chapter Nine: Hermione Makes a Choice

Hermione crept into her bed. Her eyes felt gritty and sore from both the crying and the exhaustion falling over her. At least none of the other girls had woken up. It would have been awkward and potentially humiliating to explain that yes, she had been with Professor Snape all this time. She knew at least some of the other girls (Lavender in particular crept to mind) would like nothing better than to tease her about a "relationship" with Professor Snape. She might be a bit naive, even after all this time, but she knew what they meant. They would want to believe she was having a sexual relationship with a teacher, no matter how much other evidence would say otherwise.

Hermione couldn't deny that in a better time and place, she would probably have a huge crush on the sinister-looking Potions professor. She'd always pushed those feelings aside, sublimating them in her work. A compliment from him made her whole day; she knew how rare they were.

But now she didn't know what to think. He'd turned from this aloof, slightly cold professor who had a marked dislike of her and her fellow Gryffindors (although he was scrupulously fair with grading-no matter how Harry and Ron bitched and complained, she knew it to be true) into a caring man who'd experienced some of the same awful things she had. He'd almost become, say, a comrade.

Oh, he'd been that in the war, of course, serving as a double agent for Dumbledore. She recalled many an evening in Grimmauld Place when she would sit up with the "grown-ups" and talk about academic pursuits. He had a brilliant mind and she loved picking every scrap of knowledge she could out of his brain. But he was still aloof. Still an adult, her professor. She was only a child, no matter how smart she professed to be (and no matter how small and insignificant she felt inside).

Now, though. She pulled the covers up to her neck and lay still for a moment, frowning. Now she didn't know what to believe. He'd told her that she should go to the headmaster and she wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that everything would be all right. She desperately craved the belief that her mother could get better in St. Mungo's. It was a slim chance but surely better than nothing, wasn't it? Hermione wanted to kick herself for not thinking of it before. Then again, witch daughter or not, her mother was still a Muggle and the chances of her getting into St. Mungo's without a wizard sponsor were quite slim. Nonexistent, in fact. And a witch still in school was not likely to get the hospital administration to change their minds and admit a Muggle woman, no matter how sick she might be.

No, she shouldn't be mad at herself for not realizing the possibilities the wizarding world could offer in the medical field. But could Dumbledore really help her with her father? Hermione hunched her shoulders in, wishing she could bury her head under the blankets and curl into her customary ball. The other girls thought it was strange she did that, though, and tormented her until she woke up. She desperately wished she could move into her own private room, but that wouldn't even become a possibility until seventh year. And then only if she became Head Girl.

Time to sleep, Hermione thought, exhaustion fogging her thoughts. There would be enough time for such introspection tomorrow.

Hermione thought it very unfair the next morning, after a restless and uneasy few hours of sleep, that she had Potions yet again. She'd forgotten last night in her frenzy to escape her professor. Damn it. Normally she wouldn't, but she'd decided to join a special Potions study group for advanced students who intended to study it beyond graduation. Harry and Ron thought her mental, of course, but Hermione had discovered a real flair for Potions beneath her know-it-all exterior. She loved brewing particularly complex potions, knowing what uses they could be put to. In this study group, the Potions they brewed went to the Hospital Wing, St. Mungo's, and other institutions that required them, depending on the type of potion and complexity. The knowledge that her hard work was going towards actually helping other people improved her skill, she thought.

Harry and Ron were waiting for her in the common room as she stumbled down the stairs, groggy and yawning. Harry had a pale, drawn look about him and Hermione remembered with a pang that he'd gone through his own worst nightmare last night.

"Are you all right, Harry?" she asked anxiously, tucking strands of bushy hair behind her ears and tugging her jumper down.

"I'm fine, Mione," Harry reassured her.

"He had nightmares," Ron butted in. They both shot irritable looks at the redheaded boy. Honestly, Ron, Hermione thought, shifting her bookbag higher on her shoulder and leading the way toward the Great Hall. Don't you have any tact?

The Hall was crowded. She'd woken fairly late for breakfast. Hermione refused to look at the Head Table, afraid that a certain dark-haired professor would be staring at her. She knew he would want to talk to her later. Find out what she meant to do. She didn't know. She cringed at the thought of telling the Headmaster. He could help Harry, yes, of course, he had, but Hermione? The little bushy-haired Muggleborn know-it-all? She doubted it.

Breakfast was a rushed affair. Hermione nibbled at a piece of toast until it was time to go. Harry gave her a concerned look, but she shook her head at him. Ron, as usual, was oblivious, cramming his mouth full of food. Hermione really did like him, he was a great friend, but it was a good thing she'd never relied on him for emotional support, she thought wryly. She'd die of old age before she got a truly empathic conversation with Ronald Weasley.

As the Hall started to empty out, Hermione reluctantly got to her feet, wiping her mouth clean with the back of her hand. Advanced Potions was the first class of the day.

As Hermione walked briskly down the stairs to the dungeon her class was taught in, she could feel eyes on the back of her head. She whirled, her wand in a defensive postion. It was automatic; after the war she'd been in, there was no way she could control her defensive reflexes and honestly, she didn't want to. They'd proved useful more than once.

Professor Snape stood behind her, one eyebrow raised in slightly amused query. Hermione flushed and lowered her wand, wishing that she could vanish into the floor.

"Miss Granger," he said in his soft, silky voice. "Please report to my office after class."

"Yes, sir," she mumbled, bowing her head and staring intently at the ground, like the dark stain on the stone floor could reveal the precise thing she could say to keep everything normal. Her body throbbed abruptly, in painful memory, and she bit her lip hard. Professor Snape swept by her, the wind generated by his robes billowing chilling her face. She straightened and hurried after him, slipping into the classroom only instants after her professor.

Thankfully, this was more of a study group than an actual class. Which meant he usually posted a potion or two on the chalkboard or assigned one from the text, and then left them alone, either grading papers in his office, assisting Madam Pomfrey in the Hospital Wing, or making himself available for private tutoring in the back of the room. Hermione made sure her seat was as far away from him as she could get.

Her partner ended up being Blaise Zabini. For a Slytherin, he wasn't half bad. He didn't have an ounce of prejudice against Muggleborns, something Hermione could appreciate.

The potion of the day was a moderately difficult flu reliever. Hermione went to work with a minimum of talk and effort, her mind awhirl with thoughts of the meeting later. What she would say to Professor Snape. What her decision would be. Would she agree to talk to the Headmaster, or would it be a matter of Snape dragging her down to the gargoyle-guarded office, stuffing a vial of Veritaserum down her throat, and telling her to spill it all? Would it matter?

By the time class ended, Hermione still had no idea what she would say or how she could turn the meeting to her advantage. She was not very good at manipulation. Oh, in a slight, small way, she could-at least when it involved getting someone to turn away, ignore her, minimize the pain. But like this? When her Potions professor knew? Oh, no, definitely not.

"Miss Granger," Snape called over the muted din of the class packing up and leaving. "A word with you, please." Blaise gave her a quick, wordless glance of sympathy, and she nodded at him, grateful for it. She stuffed her bag full of her Potions notes and walked slowly towards Professor Snape, standing next to his office.

"In here, please," Snape guided her into his office and shut the door. She noted with a bit of surprise that he warded it with a strong silencing charm and eavesdropping spell. What on earth did he have to say that was so important?

"Hermione," he said warmly. "Please take a seat." She gingerly perched on the edge of a chair, watching him through suspicious eyes. She clutched her bookbag to her chest in a defensive posture she knew would garner his swift attention.

"Hermione, we talked about this last night, and we need to talk of it again," he said, sitting on the edge of his desk. "Now that you've had the night to think about it, please, would you tell the Headmaster of this?"

"No," she said quietly. "I'm sorry, sir, but I really can't see how telling Headmaster Dumbledore would be appropriate."

"Is there anyone else?" Snape asked, surprising her. She looked up and blinked. "Any other professor or staff member at this school who you would like to tell?"

"Madam Pomfrey," the words flew out of her mouth. She was surprised that she had said them, but not too badly shaken. The nurse was a good choice. She would be discreet, confidential. She would have ties to the Healers at St. Mungo's, to help treat her mother.

"That's your decision?" Snape verified, arching one eyebrow. Hermione nodded. "Ah. I presume you know then, that this entails a visit to the Hospital Wing and a complete diagnostic scan." Hermione winced, but nodded again.

"I'm excusing you from your next class," Professor Snape told her. "We're going to the Hospital Wing now. I don't trust you not to run off or change your mind again." Hermione flushed a painful red, but she could not deny his reasoning. She knew how foolish she'd been last night; he didn't need to rub it in further.

"Shall we go then?" he asked, a tiny smile quirking the corners of his mouth. "Through the Floo, I think."

"Yes, sir," Hermione said softly, standing and walking toward the fireplace. "I'm ready."