Snape answered Harry's knock without saying a word. Harry would almost have preferred a scathing lecture to the subtle disappointment he saw on Snape's face when he looked down at him. He didn't even grace Harry with a sneer, he only turned and immediately made for the Potions classroom. That Harry was meant to follow went without saying, and Harry did, head hung and feet shuffling with every step.

He didn't regret punching Draco. He would gladly have done it again, but perhaps somewhere Snape wouldn't have seen. And of course, it had to have been Snape. It couldn't have been Cobbleshot or Professor Sprout. He would have taken McGonagall, even. Anyone, really, with whom his history and present circumstances weren't so hopelessly complicated.

"Cauldrons," was all Snape said before seating himself at his desk. He pulled a stack of essays over and began grading, completely ignoring Harry's presence.

Harry stood and glared at him for just a moment before turning to his task. Not because the task itself irritated him, it was standard. Harry's annoyance was with Snape's absolute refusal to acknowledge him. Grumbling inwardly, Harry rolled up his sleeves, snatched up some steel wool and cleaning potion, and began scouring the bottom of the first in of a veritable mountain of cauldrons.

Merlin's Beard! It was as if Snape assigned his last class the most easily burnt, gluish potion known to Wizardkind and then released them all early without having to tend to their tools. It took so much concentration to de-grime the damn things he almost didn't have enough left to fume.

Almost. He still had ample unspent hostility for Draco, and he threw it into his work.

The slimy, deceitful prat. There was no mistaking the sneer he'd given Harry as he and Hermione walked away. What Harry didn't know was what was behind it. Was it glee that Harry'd been caught in the act? Was it smug satisfaction that Hermione had taken his side over Harry's? Or was it more sinister? Bloody hell, it was likely all three. Harry didn't know why Draco was cosying up to Hermione, but he couldn't imagine a single scenario that didn't make Harry want to Crucio him.

Harry attacked the next cauldron with a fervour that bordered on violence.

Why couldn't Hermione see what was happening? She was so clever! Surely she should have some reservations about befriending Malfoy. Escorting him to the infirmary? Did she sit and hold his hand while they patched him up, too?

That mental image threatened to throw Harry over the edge. His forehead prickled as he imagined it in greater and greater detail, despite his sincere desire not to, and he didn't even notice it. Hermione petting Draco, apologising to him for Harry's behaviour. Draco saying it's not her fault. The two of them bonding. Harry tossed the cauldron aside and snatched up the next.

He knew she wouldn't believe him about the smirk. He'd just sound prejudiced and overly protective and she'd dismiss it. But he had to say something! But what? Once again his sheer impotence drove him to near rage. It just wasn't fair.

'You, of all people, should know that fairness is a farcical concept best reserved for fairytales and children's stories. We live in the real world, Mister Potter.'

Great. As if he wasn't riled up enough without Snape's bloody voice in his head.

Harry wasn't even looking at the cauldrons anymore. He couldn't remember how many he'd ploughed through as he stewed, he just stared murder at the wall in front of him while he scrubbed. The tingling in his scar had reached a pitch that could no longer be ignored but, instead of frightening him, Harry wryly wondered if he couldn't use a bit of its destructive power on the goop welded to the bottom of the pot he was working on. He felt that strange, maniacal grin that had last appeared in Dumbledore's office tug at his cheeks. Or was it at breakfast last week? Or had he noticed it briefly while in Cobbleshot's cupboard? What did it matter? It felt like an old friend.

Harry reached for another cauldron when he heard a quiet voice behind him.

"Enough."

Harry didn't know how long Snape had been standing there or how he had managed to come so close without Harry noticing. Harry's scar fell dormant when his hands stilled, but his heart was hammering in his chest.

Snape came beside him and, without prelude or any gentleness, took hold of Harry's wrist to examine his hand. Somehow Harry hadn't noticed it, but the skin around his nails had cracked and was bleeding. His fingertips were raw and his nails ruined. To make matters worse, the cleaning potion, combined with whatever Harry had been scrubbing from the cauldrons, had worked its way into the wounds, causing them to burn. Harry was a bit surprised to find himself so damaged but was almost beyond caring.

Snape investigated each lesion (twisting Harry's wrist in several uncomfortable positions to do so) while Harry fixed his gaze stubbornly on the far wall. To add insult to injury, his stomach chose that moment to growl loudly. Harry ignored it.

Snape finished his rough examination but didn't relinquish Harry's wrist. He held it so long Harry finally dragged his attention to the Potions Master to find him squinting at Harry in an eerily still and intense fashion. It made Harry self-conscious, as if the man's eyes were stripping him bare to his core. It was uncomfortable, but not so much that Harry couldn't spare a passing thought to wonder what Snape saw there.

'Ungrateful whelp of a boy.'

'Naive, impervious little...'

'Disobedience. Disrespect. Recklessness.'

Harry's eyes inexplicably began to sting and, ashamed, he broke eye contact with Snape to blink away the unexpected wave of emotion. He'd never cared what Snape thought of him before. Why, all of a sudden, did he wish that Snape could see in him what others saw? That he could place the faith in him that they did? Why did Snape's scrutiny make Harry feel so useless and incompetent? Why on earth did he suddenly want Snape's respect?

The man finally released Harry's wrist, much more gently than he'd taken it up, and Harry held his injured hands to his chest and stared at the sink, still trying to will away his threatening tears.

"Tell me, Harry. Did tonight's activities seem like punishment to you?" Snape asked; not cruelly or sarcastically, just plainly, as if he really was interested in the response.

Harry gritted his teeth. "Yes, Sir."

Snape sighed, then he went to a cabinet to retrieve some healing salve which he shoved into palm of Harry's hand. "Same time tomorrow, Potter."

Harry nodded without replying or making eye contact and left. He cradled the phial in his hand halfway back to Gryffindor Tower before it occurred to him to actually apply the stuff. It helped instantly, and Harry hadn't realised how much damage he'd done to himself or how much he was hurting until he abruptly didn't anymore. The skin healed before his eyes. Not completely. He was still pink and tender, but the salve had returned full function to his fingers. He worked them a little to make sure, but there was no longer any stiffness.

Hermione was in the Common Room when he arrived and, when he caught sight of her, Harry stopped cold. It was late, much later than Harry might have guessed. Time had sort of suspended itself during his detention, as it always seemed to do in the dungeons. It must have at least been past curfew, and the Common Room was otherwise deserted.

Harry's expression betrayed nothing. Neither did hers, but then she saw his hands, the sorry state of them despite the salve, and she looked worried. Apparently, she had been waiting for him, but perhaps his condition was making her reconsider whatever motive she had had for it. When Harry didn't speak or move, she scooted over on the sofa just a little in unspoken invitation for him to join her there. He stepped up to the couch but didn't sit.

"Harry, I think perhaps we should talk," she began. She was having a hard time maintaining her determined posture.

"What about?" Harry's voice sounded dead even to his own ears, and each moment that passed made Hermione more troubled. He could tell that she was fighting the impulse to rush to his side and gingerly inspect his injuries. He could imagine she was trying to convince herself that Harry's sores were well-earned but was unable to completely override her concern.

"Please. Would you sit down?" she asked politely, imploringly.

Harry complied but gazed at the fire. He felt its heat keenly on his newly healed skin.

"Harry," she began carefully. "Last night..." She was screwing up her nerve. She delicately wet her lips. "Last night you said you cared about me." She took a shaky breath. "You called me your friend."

Harry turned to look at her, brow slightly furrowed. "You are, Hermione," he said quietly. "My best friend." Which is why he'd punch a thousand Dracos and endure as many digit-destroying detentions for it. He'd do anything for Hermione.

"Is that all I am to you?" she asked in a voice so small and anguished he almost didn't catch it.

Harry scowled in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Can I never be more than just your best friend?" she asked, courage building slowly in her voice.

"Hermione. I don't understand what you're asking me." Harry was weary, physically and emotionally. He suspected her meaning but so did not want to deal with it that his mind refused to process her words correctly.

"Could you never have...other feelings for me?"

Harry was reeling. Despite the pain it caused, he scrubbed his eyes with his ruined fingertips. "Hermione," he said, shock and mild accusation tinting his voice, "Ron...Ron just died."

Her face crumpled momentarily but she recovered quickly with a deep, calming breath. "I know," she whispered. "But-"

"Like, he just died. Your boyfriend, my best mate, just died, and you're hitting on me?" he asked, not cruelly, just incredulously.

"It's not like that," she insisted, desperate to be understood. "My feelings for you...Harry, how I feel about you did not change in just the last two weeks."

"You mean, while you and Ron...?"

"Yes," she confessed with a blush, ashamed but unable to hide the truth any longer. Harry wasn't sure what to say.

'Everyone is always so concerned about Harry. Even my own girlfriend.'

Harry closed his eyes and tried to internalise the fact that Hermione had had feelings for him for since...

'And here I thought, from what Padma's been hearing from Parvati all these years, that Hermione would be with Harry.'

"How long?" he asked her quietly.

"A long time." She had drawn her feet up onto the couch and was hugging herself, staring at the fire. Her voice was so small, but it was relieved, as if the admission had waited to pass her lips for far too long. "We get on so well, so much better than Ron and I ever did. We're just comfortable. Or, we were before."

Harry sat back on the couch, waiting patiently for her to finish. Regardless of whether or not he wanted to hear this, he could tell she needed to say it. Deep down, they both knew what the outcome would be, but some things cannot be ignored, no matter the consequence.

"But there was always something missing," she went on after taking a deep, steadying breath. "I liked you. I wanted to like you that way. But something wouldn't let me. Not until this summer when you arrived at Grimmauld Place." Harry turned to look at her and she met his eye without hesitation. "You had changed," she said wonderingly. "I couldn't put my finger on it, but whatever piece had been missing wasn't missing anymore. And after that, being with Ron was..." She looked away and shook her head. "It felt like lying, but I didn't know what to do about it. And you were so distant. I understand that, you were busy. You are busy. It's just that now, since losing Ron, I just feel like, like I need you. I need you in a way...a way you can't be there for me," she finished quietly, closing her eyes and causing a tear to course silently down her cheek.

Harry felt himself start to tear up, too. He could feel her pain and he hated it. But he couldn't bring himself to do the only thing that would soothe it. Because like she had said, it would be like lying, and Hermione deserved so much better than that.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," he said, heartfelt and aching.

"I know," she whispered.

They sat there, together but not, for a long moment swollen with regret and love and love unrequited before Hermione uncurled herself and went up to her room without another word. Harry stayed in the Common Room and stared at the fire until it faded to a whisper; and he couldn't help but wonder, as he watched it slowly expire, what else had died there that night, as well.