I apologize for delay - don't eat me! In other news, I got some really lovely reviews that I smiled over. You have no idea how much those mean to me and thanks loyal reviews (I do keep track) for continuing to follow this story.

I do so hope you all enjoy.

Hermione headed towards the door without another word; her arm still banded tightly around her stomach and her mouth set in a grim lime of determination. Almost as soon as her palm made contact with the doorknob, Snape's baritone voice rang out across the room.

"And Miss Granger, twenty points from Gryffindor for the theft of valuable potion ingredients…Elder berries don't grow on trees."

Hermione slammed the door on her way out.

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CHAPTER FORTEEN

Sleep that night found Hermione tossing and turning in her bed, her sheets tangled tightly around her legs like the tentacles of a Devil Snare and her brow slicked with sweat as she made helpless noises in her slumber.

The nightmares had come.

Dreams always have the capacity to leave one in the sweet, sated bliss of unawareness or the shaking, tearful state of horror from which you cannot escape – both avenues boundless in an ethereal place of unrealism where the subconscious rises up and takes hold of what weighs on you the most. Hermione's fear had thrown off its reins…and now it ran rampant.

Shadows cast by a single flickering candle, the touch of unyielding stone under bruised hands, the feeling of helplessness and hopelessness that stabbed through her chest…

The memories seemed to take on a life of their own – growing at a beat that matched her pulse, feeding off the darker side of imagination and illusion. She was back in the bathroom, still vulnerable, but no longer alone. Dark hooded figures stood over her, their faces eclipsed by depthless shadows and the frantic sound of her heartbeat filling the stale, heavy air.

Thump...thump…thump...thump…thump…thump..thump..thump…

Hermione stopped breathing as the figures moved closer; too human to be Dementors yet all the more frightening because of it.

These were men…and they were going to hurt her.

Fear crushed logic, smashed reason, and washed away defiance – Hermione could only watch, trapped like the scared animal she imagined she was, as a robed arm rose into the air. Tears clogged her throat and her lungs seemed to collapse.

No, please don't! Not again! Please…!

And her world splintered into oblivion.

Hermione awoke panting desperately through broken sobs; the lingering stabs of phantom pain shooting through her.

No…not again…please…no…

Her hair was sticky with sweat and her heart beat like it wanted to escape the confines of her chest but Hermione could only tremble weakly on the tossed sheets as the mind-numbing panic slowly receded. It's not real, it's not real, she told herself over and over, forcing her eyes open and taking in the peaceful moonlit room, I'm safe. It wasn't real. It wasn't real…

It was only when the gentle press of soft fur brushed Hermione's face that she allowed her unsteady hands to loosen their death grip around her stomach – Crookshankes. Taking a deep breath she tentatively reached out to pet her loyal familiar. I'm safe. She willed the rest of her body to relax its rigid posture but then froze as something completely foreign registered in her mind. What in the world…?

Throwing back the covers, Hermione felt her cheeks suddenly burn with shock and humiliation; she was sitting in the middle of a large, dark wet stain with the putrid smell of urine rising up from her damp pajama bottoms. Without hesitation Hermione jumped out of bed, her nose wrinkled with disgust even as her brow furrowed in disbelief.

Even when I was younger I never wet the bed… Merlin, how humiliating…

The young witch could only be thankful that she no longer slept in a room shared by four other girls. Had that not been the case, Hermione was sure her humiliation would have been complete.

Why would I do this? It was just a dream – I've never reacted like that to a dream… But then again, Hermione had to admit she'd never had a dream so vivid – so terrifying – that it made her scared to shut her eyes again. Numb with emotional and physical exhaustion, Hermione mindlessly stripped out of her pajamas, scourgifyed the sheet and her body, and then climbed back into bed; her heated skin snuggling indulgently into the cool sheets that smelled of lingering magic.

Please, no more nightmares.

The following morning Hermione arrived at the Great Hall, fresh from a hot shower and retaining only faint recalls of the nightmares of the night before. She could handle this, she was sure of it. As soon as she took her seat however, the intense, questioning gaze of Harry suddenly put her on edge.

"Um, 'morning, Harry," she said, slightly puzzled by the strange, unidentifiable look he was giving her. "Did you sleep well?"

Blinking as if breaking from a trance, Harry frowned slightly and turned back to his breakfast. "Not especially, weird nightmare," he mumbled, not meeting her gaze.

"Was it Voldemort?" Hermione whispered covertly to him, suddenly concerned for her best friend.

Harry only shook his head and waved her off. "No, nothing like that, Hermione. It was just…weird." He shook his head and then broke out in a bright, if slightly strained, smile. "Forget I said anything; it was probably just the Canary Custard I had before bed. How was your first night as Snape's apprentice?"

Hermione sighed, the small action her only betrayal of the well of feeling currently rising up inside of her. How was it? she thought, Horrible, degrading, humiliating, frustrating…scary. Worse than I could have expected.

"It was fine," Hermione settled on, her voice flat, "Snape is Snape; I can't expect him to act any differently out of the class room than in it."

"So what you're saying is he was a right bastard and you wish you'd never applied for the position," Harry summarized with a sympathetic grin. Hermione snickered and returned the friendly smile with one of her own.

"Right."

That afternoon Hermione felt her anxiety and worries unconsciously melt into the background as she found herself caught up in the excitement of walking to her first Defense Against the Dark Arts class of the year.

"So what's this guy like?" Ron asked, slightly jealous that Harry and Hermione had both gotten to meet the new professor face to face.

"Well, he's French for one thing," Harry said, "But it's kind of weird because he doesn't have a French accent. Or any accent for that matter."

"Maybe he learned French and English at the same time," Hermione put in as she hefted her bag of books more securely onto her shoulder. "But other than that, he's kind of tall and…I don't know, graceful."

"Graceful?" Ron echoed, looking slightly put out by the thought, "Merlin, if Dumbledore hired some kind of pansy for this year…"

"No, no, not graceful like a swan. More like…" Hermione paused, furrowing her brow as she sought for an accurate comparison.

"More like a rapier," Harry supplied and Hermione nodded in agreement.

"Hmm," was Ron's only comment as they turned the corner and reached the Defense Again the Dark Arts classroom. He didn't sound very optimistic.

"Greetings," a flowing, masculine voice greeted from the front of the room as soon as the bell rang, "and welcome to N.E.W.T Level Defense Against the Dark Arts."

Professor d'Georgesses leaned comfortably against the dark wood of his desk, one hip hitched on the edge of the hard surface as he gazed languidly around the classroom, surveying his seventh year students. His custard colored robes were left carelessly open as if he'd thought the mundane task of buttoning them too much trouble and beneath he wore the traditional black slacks and white dress shirt so many modern wizards had adopted.

Behind her, Hermione could hear Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil sighing loudly about how his robes matched the color of his eyes but personally, Hermione was more interested in the extensive collection of swords, shields, daggers, spears, and axes that adorned the tall walls of the classroom. Many of them had flashy ribbons, glittering jewels, or intricate designs woven into the metalwork but Hermione doubted that made them any less deadly.

Just how does an expert in ancient charms boast such an expansive selection of weapons?

Somehow the effect of being virtually surrounded by lethal weaponry was subtly counteracted by old, vibrant tapestries that littered the walls and tall, decorated urns that sat innocently in the corners of the classroom. With each new professor that inhabited these quarters, the room took on a different feel, a different atmosphere. Hermione didn't have to think long to conclude that Professor d'Georgesses' was by far her favorite.

"Before we begin I'd like to introduce myself," Professor d'Georgesses began, his voice clear and light as it ebbed throughout the chamber. "My name is León d'Georgesses and, though I am a native of Caen, France, I spend the majority of my time at my estate in Romania. My life hardly reflects the boasted accolades many of your past Professor may have claimed to but I can say I've had a life well lived. I have traveled with curse breakers and ridden dragons, I have traveled to the ends of the earth and returned multiple times, I have been on vampire hurts as well as slayed my share of werewolves. I have been many things in my lifetime, but one of the few I cannot claim to is that of the role of teacher. Experience, knowledge, and resources are some of the few things I have in spades and I am willing to share them with you. I only ask your cooperation and willingness."

Following his short yet powerful introduction, a couple frantic hands shot into the air; waving with such enthusiasm that the Professor let out a tinkering chuckle and a charming, toothy smile.

"Eager students? Is there anything better in this life?" Slyly pleased, the newest addition to the Hogwart's staff called on Seamus Finnigan, a usually unenthusiastic wizard who normally stayed as far away from teachers as possible.

"Have you really slayed a werewolf, Professor?" he asked, excitedly.

A look of distaste crossed d'Georgesses' face and Hermione could have sworn she saw his eyes glint in the afternoon light.

"Of course, Mister Finnigan, what do you think those swords on the wall are for? Pure silver, of course. Disgusting creatures – werewolves." he said mildly, waving it off. "We share no love with those beasts. Ah, another question! Yes, Miss Webb?"

Hermione could feel the rage radiating off Harry from her seat next to him and she slipped her hand under the table to touch his gripped fist.

"He means other werewolves, Harry," she whispered, her face one of concern, "We all know Remus would never soil himself by joining one of those bloodthirsty packs. You have to remember Greyback, Harry, and others like him. I'm sure if Professor d'Georgesses ever met Remus he would immediately see the difference between them. Besides, werewolves are only really men who give themselves over to the beast in them, Remus is still a man, no matter what his blood or the Ministry says. Don't ever doubt it."

Slowly Hermione watched the tension recede out of Harry's shoulders. "Remus is not a beast, in fact, he's more of a man than many other people I've met." Harry squeezed her hand. "Thanks for reminding me of that, Hermione."

Satisfied that Harry was alright, Hermione turned back to the class where a current discussion on trolls versus giants was taking place.

I suppose if anything, this year will be an interesting one, Hermione thought, too many thoughts running through her already overly taxed mind to decipher. We'll just have to wait and see…

That night and for the next two days, Hermione reported to Snape's room every day at five-thirty without incident and then was dismissed promptly at eight o'clock. For the most part he ignored her, sending her to do the inane, simplistic duties he usually reserved for detention. Never again did he offer to heal her and Hermione repeatedly berated herself for spurning his earlier offered help. Her hands had completely ceased to shake by midday Thursday but the bruises along her ribcage had only faded slightly to a light purple and were still quite painful.

At least they're healing, she thought, that's at least something that's going well, right…? She clung to the little threads of optimism like they were her last hold from the darkness.

Saturday night however, after a short, particularly vicious series of cutting comments, Hermione realized Snape's usually sour deposition was even more unbearable than usual. He was brooding over something and Hermione suddenly felt ill at the thought of what was to come.

It's Saturday, she told herself, forcefully keeping her breathing calm and controlled, what did you expect? Voldemort hasn't summoned him in nearly a week…he's due for a revel.

Her fears came to bear fruit not half an hour later when a sudden, intense burning sensation shot up Hermione's forearm and she heard the sharp intake of breath from behind her. He's being summoned. Wordlessly, she rose from her seat where she had been chopping Sabbar roots and followed the Professor through the hidden door behind his desk. She had not been back in his quarters since the night he had so bluntly ordered her form them and the room was no more less foreboding upon second entry. Tall ceilings, a flickering fire, dark austere colors – it would forever remind Hermione of a forest.

Or perhaps a jungle is more fitting, Hermione reflected humorlessly as she waited for the Professor to return with his cloak and mask. Every jungle needs a cat of prey to stalk it.

"You will remain here till I return," a voice abruptly sounded, breaking through her thoughts and Hermione spun around.

Snape stood before her, complete in his Death Eater attire and a bone-white mask clasp tightly in his hand. Not a night had gone by without Hermione waking, trembling and nearly ill, in a bed soaked with sweat and urine. It was her own private nightly hell which both terrified and humiliated her – was there any way this man could stand before her now, a figure directly from her nightly torture, without her feeling some sort of trepidation?

Hermione swallowed tightly. No, there was not.

She stood awkwardly in the middle of the Oriental rug as Snape turned away, his thick cloak licking his heels as he stood across the room and opened yet another hidden doorway. Pausing, Snape turned back for a moment, his eyes a depthless black in the heated light and the sharp angles of his face severe and hard.

"Sit," he barked, gesturing to the chair she'd occupied before, "and remember, Miss Granger, to fight the Cruciatus Curse is to encourage it; I expect you to exercise your self-control tonight. I don't want to return to find you in the same state as Monday's performance – I haven't the patience, time, or energy to deal with the frivolities of a distraught witch."

Hermione's jaw went rigid at the intended barb but she remained silent as he plowed on, heedless of her rising temper.

"And, Miss Granger," he finished, his cloak flaring out as he spun away from her, "do not so much as think of moving from that chair before I return. Have I made myself clear?"

"Yes, Professor," she bit out, and then watched with an ambivalent expression as he disappeared down the dank tunnel, the passage baring itself after him.

Sighing in frustrating, Hermione turned away and walked demurely to her indicated seat; her chests weighted down with anxiety and nerves.

You don't even know if he'll be cursed tonight, a hopeful voice spoke up from the back of her mind, but Hermione immediately squashed it. Hermione was no fool; she knew Harry's Ligilimancy lessons had begun the day before, she also knew the Dark Lord was probably furious over the fact that he hadn't been able to access Harry's thoughts. There's no way around it – he'll blame Snape for not being able to invade Harry's subconscious. I can feel it – tonight does not hold any pleasantries for Snape…or me.

Curling up in the large, rigid chair, Hermione noticed a small bundle of conspicuous red cloth lying innocently on the armrest. Curious, the young witch reached out and shook out the neatly folded materiel – it was her transfigured dusty-red blanket. Not exactly sure what the gesture meant or implied, Hermione merely settled on the thankfulness that she had at least something familiar to curl up to in the foreign room. Draping it over herself, Hermione leaned back into the strong embrace of the armchair and shut her eyes as she concentrated on her breathing.

She could handle this; she had to.

Three hours later, Snape padded wearily through the underground tunnel, his Animagus form moving much faster and quieter through the night than any human could have done in his state. The Dark Lord had not been pleased at all with the development surrounding Potter's Ligilimancy lessons. Indeed Snape was lucky he had not been there the day before when Voldemort had tried time and time again to break through the resilient wards that now mysteriously protected The-Boy-Who-Lived's thoughts; wizards at the end of the Dark Lord's temper did not live long enough to beg forgiveness.

As it were, twenty-four hours later had found Voldemort's anger only slightly more pacified and Snape had amazingly escaped with only three warning bouts of Cruciatus. Not as bad as if the Dark Lord's entire rage had been behind it but still enough to make the new recruits cringe and pale in terror. Sometimes watching the pain of another is worse than experiencing it oneself; sometimes.

Finally, Snape reached the familiar stone barrier that guarded the entrance to his quarters and then watched with guarded, narrow eyes as the heavy stone door swung inwards. Merlin, please let the foolish chit have learned some control from her last experience…her body's not made to endure this kind of strain at its full force.

Snape padded silently into the room, his eyes immediately seeking out the black-clad figure that currently sat trembling in the overly large seat of the arm chair.

She didn't obey me, was the only thought that crossed Snape's mind as he took in the clenched arms and visibly jerking spine. He'd told her to let the pain flow through her, damn it! Her reaction wouldn't be nearly so violent if she'd been able to control herself. Damn Gryffindors, complete lack of self-discipline!

He seethed inwardly as he cursed her and even though he was loath to leave the relatively painless form of his Animagus, Snape knew he was no help to the girl as a beast. He quickly reverted back to his human form, his breath hissing out of him as the pain slammed back into his body; his lungs devoid of air. Breathing forcefully through his nose, Snape kept his muscles loose and relaxed despite the familiar feeling of white-hot spasms now retaking his body; damn her for his pain!

Stalking up to her side, Snape towered down over her bowed head and quaking shoulders; oh how hard she tried to hide her pain from him.

"Miss Granger, look at me," he ordered, his voice rough as he commanded obedience.

Not daring to disobey, Hermione swallowed and mutely turned her head to the side – the small movement still enough to cause knives of pain to shot through her. Her eyes flickered open only for a moment before they clamped shut once again; the fire hurt her eyes.

Snape's nostrils flared as he took in the tiny rivulet of blood that flowed from her lips down the side of her chin, the foreign, vacant look in her eye as they flickered briefly open, the sporadic, broken breaths that passed through chapped lips. Little fool, look what you've done.

Hermione tightened her hold around her stomach as another spasm suddenly slithered down her spine; Merlin she couldn't breath! Make the pain stop…make it stop! Black and grey spots dance in front of her eyes and the young witch bit back a choked noise of pain. She could hear a familiar baritone voice hissing urgently in her ear that she must not loose consciousness but the voice sounded so very far away…and she was so very tired…and she hurt so very much… The darkness would take the pain away; Hermione was so sure of it she almost wished for the ignorance of unconsciousness.

The sudden press of a vial against her cut lip made Hermione wince in pain and shy away from the offending object but a firm grip caught her chin and determinedly forced the overly sweet concoction past her lips and down her throat. Almost immediately, the black and grey spots disappeared, the pain returning to its vivid, stabbing intensity. Hermione bit her lip to stop from sobbing; no, let me fall…let the pain go away. No…let me go…

"Stop biting your lip this instant!" Snape's voice snapped from beside her, "You're making yourself bleed."

"Why did you do that?" Hermione managed to whisper brokenly, "Why couldn't you let me escape the pain? Why did you bring me back!?"

"Unconsciousness does not prevent the curse form ravaging your body, you little fool," Snape replied curtly, throwing the used potion phial aside as he roughly straightened her legs out from under her and forced her back into a straight sitting position. "Now, this time you will let the spasm flow through you – you will not stop it, nor will you try to hide form it. Do try to at least pretend to possess some of that so called Gryffindor bravery."

That single careless comment scraped all the way to the bone and Hermione's eyes flared open in rage.

"You bastard, don't touch me—"

"As if you could honestly stop me, Miss Granger," Snape threw back all too easily, "But I'll compromise – you show me you can handle the spasms, and I shall release your legs."

Hermione didn't get a chance to respond as another wave of Cruciatus washed over her. Nearly blind with agony, Hermione only threw her head back against the rigid cushion of the armchair and told herself over and over again that she would prove Snape wrong. She was a Gryffindor, no one could ever take that away from her, and should would prove that she deserved the honor.

Breath in…breath out…breath in…breath out… This time, she kept her muscles as lax as she physically was able; the effort nearly overwhelming her. The spasm worked its way all the way down to her toes before fading into nothing and Hermione's entire body swayed sideways to lean against the sides of the chair.

Merlin, I feel so weak, she thought, sweat coating hr brow even as goose bumps ran all the way up her legs and arms. The pressure disappeared from the legs and she looked at her Professor through half open eyes.

"Adequate, Miss Granger," he said stonily, rising from his crouched position, "Adequate."

I know this is a horrible place to leave everyone but to continue was to write another 4,ooo words and I really just wasn't up for the task.

It's been a while since I've written anything so if I forgot something or maybe my structure isn't quite up to par I hope you'll forgive me. Oh my gosh, I'm at 254 reviews and I am soo excited. Hm...I wonder what people will think of this chapter...

God, I'll probably get flames about how Leon isn't vampire-y enough. Or how it's moving too slow. Or how my grammar/spelling sucks...grr.

Teaser:: I think I'm going to continue with this scene - it could do with a decent ending. Also, you may see a bit of Dumbledore manipulation (although you may not recognize it for what it truly is). I think I'll have a little Dean/Ron confrontation...maybe. A hint about Harry's dream for sure (I know some of you caught that. Congrats.) and I do believe it's time for Draco to make an appearance in Snape's quarters. How will Hermione react? I'll leave it up to you to stew a bit ;)

Review, damn you! I know you're there!!