Mine Protector
Chapter 9: Pacing the Precipice
"It was a spectacle...
No, I mean a miracle.
So then I fell like that girl from the balance beam.
A gymnasium of eyes were all holding on to me....
It was a small mistake,
sometimes that's all it takes.
- "From a Balance Beam", Bright Eyes (I can't stop listening to this new record!)
On most week-nights, Hogwarts was dead-quiet by the stroke of midnight. By then, most students were trundling up to bed, or taking showers, or finishing last-minute homework assignments in their respective house common rooms. The main part of the castle might be disrupted by Filch's footsteps as he did patrols, or by the more common Peeves-related outbursts, but down in the dungeons, all was indefinitely crystalline with silence.
Which was just how Severus Snape liked it, of course.
His own living quarters were located just a few paces down the hallway from the potions classroom itself; luckily, the Slytherin dormitory was down a different corridor entirely. Regardless of popular opinion that held the dungeons as drafty, chilly, and unpleasant, he found that his was one of the more homey areas of the castle. His rooms were low and stone-walled, but since they were underground and lacked the castle's aged windows, they were also quite warm in the winter, and pleasantly cool in the summer. A thick, tapestried-rug covered the floors, and he had magically enlarged his fireplace to accommodate his best cauldron; typically, the fire it held was so large and bright that he needed little else to illuminate the room. It was before this fire that Snape spent most of his free time; sometimes working on his own potions, and other times, he merely stared into the silent, orangey flames, thinking.
Anyone who had judged Severus Snape to be calculating, sarcastic, and dour would have been dead on the nose, no doubt. He was often labeled as a misanthrope, and didn't really feel any shame in the label; in his experience, most people really *weren't* worth much more than pocket lint. All those grass-is-greener types who walked around thinking humans were basically good and decent were, in his eyes, frightfully misguided. People were, above all, selfish and hedonistic--himself included, at times. He saw no point in pretending otherwise.
This was one of the many reasons why Severus Snape saw to it that Harry Potter never received one iota of special treatment from his own hands; the boy was already gazed upon by mostly worshipful eyes, and if he ever came to see himself as flawless--as so many others seemed to see him--he would be doomed. And if Severus himself took a little bit of pleasure in pointing out the boy's weaknesses publicly. . .well, he had never claimed to be perfect either, had he?
No, Snape knew he was far from perfect himself. In fact, scarcely a day went by when he wasn't reminded of those imperfections. The dark mark was, of course, the biggest reminder--that one-way wiring to Voldemort, which kept him under the Dark Lord's watchful gaze at all times. Those who thought that Snape rarely left the castle because he hated to go out in public would be wrong--he simply *couldn't* leave the castle without special precautions, no matter how may have wanted otherwise. Currently, his position as a death-eater was considered borderline-traitorous. After his recent ascension, Voldemort had surely come to realize that Severus he had been pulling the cloak-and-dagger act during these last fifteen years, and the other death-eaters were slowly beginning to question his loyalty, too.
There was only one small--but significant--use that the dark-mark served him, and that was the ability to sense the nearness and activities of other death-eaters. It gave him no insight into the mind of Voldemort himself, unfortunately, but he was fairly sure that the other death-eaters were unaware that he had trained himself to tune in on their movements. He hoped so, as it was the only advantage he currently possessed.
The last time he had sensed the closeness of another death-eater, he had assumed it was merely triggered by Ivan Karakoff's presence during the Tri-Wizard Tournament. Barty Crouch Jr. had been a second-generation death eater of sorts, and his presence had been too remote, too alien for Snape to attune to. Since then, Snape had increased his telepathic experiments with the dark mark. He knew he was increasing his chances of having his own presence sensed in return, but he felt an undeniable duty to not let anything or anyone connected to the death-eaters pass under his radar again.
He rubbed at the mark absently; there was little activity to pick up on now, but just this weekend--right around Halloween--he had picked up a strong signal from it, one so strong it had caused him a short bought of nausea. -Who is it that you're on the hunt for...?- he wondered silently. -Who is this 'one' that protects Harry Potter?-
The message troubled him deeply. Harry Potter had many protectors: himself, for one--though he may not be the obvious or first choice; then there were the other teachers, Dumbledore, McGonagall, Hagrid, and Black, most notably. Snape was of course aware of Black's identity as Potter's godfather, and though he disliked Black a great deal, he had promised Dumbledore that he would not reveal the two's private connection. Certainly, Black's arrival could be attracting the death-eaters' attentions.
-But lets not forget Granger and Weasley. . .- Snape added to himself. Those two alone had certainly rescued Harry Potter from more scrapes than all of the Hogwart's staff combined, much to his own annoyance.
At this thought, Snape felt a slight pulse in his arm. Whoever the death-eaters were looking for, they were getting closer to finding them.
Quite contemplative, he settled back in his chair and stared into the fire, feeling his eyelids grow leaden with fatigue. Just as he was about to doze away, he heard an unmistakable *pop*--distant, but unmistakable nonetheless--and his eyes blinked back open as if spring-loaded. The noise hadn't come from the fire, that much he knew. No, to a trained potions master, the noise was all too familiar, too associated with deep feelings of triumph and pride.
It was the satisfying *pop* of a perfectly completed potion.
---
Other than Filch and Mrs. Norris, there was only one other soul wandering the halls of Hogwarts that night. As a prefect, Hermione could move throughout the castle after hours with little worry of being punished, which, she thought caustically, was a good thing, seeing as how she would have little patience with anyone in a position of authority right now.
This first week of November had been a difficult one for Hermione. Following the admittedly festive high-jinx of Halloween, she was now kicking herself for neglecting to stay on guard. This was in part due to Ron's mysterious attackers inside the Dungeon of Doom; like Sirius, she was skeptical as to the possibility of *real* death-eaters inside Hogwarts. Security had been upped dramatically since the impostor Moody's sojourn at the castle, but someone *had* tried to stun Ron for reason. If they'd wanted to scare him, or even hurt him, they could have easily done so without attempting to knock him unconscious.
Besides, while there may have been no death-eaters in the Hogwarts vicinity, there were many *children* of death-eaters right under this very roof, some of whom might be currently training towards being death-eaters themselves--a fact which hadn't left Hermione's mind for many days. Not since Monday morning, in particular , when at breakfast she'd gotten a delivery from a school barn-owl. It was a small folded note on distressingly familiar parchment.
"Tell your friends who you are, or I will."
A threat. A small one, perhaps--one that didn't put herself or her friends in immediate danger, but it was enough. Someone was trying to force her hand. Someone concerned for Harry and Ron's well being? Maybe.
Maybe not.
She had murmured a quick charm and reduced the note to ash. This one she would keep from Dumbledore.
"What was that?" Harry asked, poking at the ash with the end of his spoon. "Did McGonagall send you a note saying you got less than one-hundred percent on our last Transfiguration exam?"
She had said nothing in reply, only gathered her books and went straight back to the dormitory. She missed the first twenty minutes of Arithmancy looking through her large steamer trunk, frantically tossing out old spell books, mis-matched socks, and quill-stubs. When the trunk was entirely empty, she muttered "Alohomora" and the false bottom came unlocked, springing open. There were only a few things in the secret compartment: some dangerous potion-making ingredients, for one, along with a fallacy stone and small vial of phoenix tears--she also had an official copy of Hermione Granger's birth certificate in here (though she had no idea where Dumbledore had actually acquired the latter). What she didn't have, unfortunately, was the usual years-worth of VesClotho. That flask was empty. Why oh why hadn't she made a full-years supply over the summer?
It was that damned fairy-lash, of course. She'd only had enough to finish off a single dose.
But she had to have more. Some might have said that the physical differences between a near 17 year old and a near 23 year old weren't that vast, which was certainly true enough. But if someone aged those six full years in a matter of days, the change would be noticeable. Even something subtle, like a change in voice, for example, could pique someone's attention.
This was because VesClotho was something far more special than a mere youth potion. It was the ultimate disguise, in that regard. Rather than merely altering physical appearance, the potion had a profound confundus effect that repelled the efforts of anyone hoping to "unmask" the user. This was why Hermione could alter nothing more than her eye and hair color (and only slightly, at that) and still never remind past professors of the one and only Helena Black. Helena had been a stand-out student at Hogwarts--top of her class and all--and a slight change in coloring would have never thrown off canny individuals like Snape and McGonagall. Nor would it have averted the roaming Auror's eye of the impostor Moody. But that same slight change in looks, combined with the powers of VesClotho, worked wonders. Those who had known Helena could look openly at Hermione and would simply never think to connect the two together.
But as the potion wore away, she grew increasingly worried that someone attentive would see her raise her hand in class, or would notice her particular habit of crossing her legs just at the ankles, and think to themselves: "Doesn't that Hermione Granger remind you of Helena Black?" "Why yes, yes she does, come to think of it....how curious."
That's why she had to sneak down to the potions classroom in the dead of night, just to brew up the right amount of Vesclotho. It wouldn't have been impossible to brew the potion up in her room, or even in one of the prefect bathrooms, but seeing as how she was out of fairy-lash, she would have to raid the classroom supply cabinet anyway. Interestingly enough, fairy-lash was considered a fairly useless potion-making element, and was therefore not locked up in Snape's private stores. Girls sometimes smudged it on their cheeks or eyelids like a silvery blush, and it tended to make potions taste quite pleasant, but only Hermione seemed to have discovered its youth-altering effects.
When she reached the entrance to the dungeons Hermione paused, reconsidering what she was about to do. -Just fetch the fairy-lash and leave...- she told herself sternly. But she knew that was out of the question. She needed the Vesclotho as quickly as possible--nothing less would do. Just that morning she had woken up coated in sweat, quite on the verge of a full-on panic attack; she had bounded out of bed and rushed to Parvati's full length mirror, frenzied, convinced she would see an ancient, wizened crone staring back at her. She knew she would not rest until she had the potion, and the fastest and easiest way to get it would be to just mix it up in Snape's classroom that very night, and pray to the Gods that she wouldn't be found out.
---
Snape couldn't believe his eyes. Hermione Granger was in his classroom at nearly 2 o'clock in the morning, making a potion.
It was the noise that had drawn him out of his private room, aware that someone else was in the dungeons with him; instead of entering the classroom directly, he quietly skulked into the off-limits storage room that served as a short corridor between his office and the potions classroom itself, and cracked the storage room door open just slightly--enough so that he could get a very clear view of Hermione Granger, who was busy returning some jars into the everyday supply cabinet. -Whatever she's doing, I doubt it's for extra credit...- he thought shrewdly, just before making his move.
He exited the storage room and shut the door behind him with an audible *snick*. Amazingly, Granger didn't look up from what she was doing, which was, at the moment, transferring a cauldron over to the sink-area, looking as if she were preparing to dump extra potion down the drain. Her hair was a mass of un-tamed curls that stood up crazily on one side of her head. There were dull circles under her eyes, and instead of school robes she was wearing a long gray tee-shirt, topped only by a thin, terry-cloth housecoat. If he hadn't known better, he might have mistaken her for a sleep-walker.
"Miss Granger. . ." he began, in a voice that sounded surprisingly gentle, even to him.
She jumped as if electrocuted, and let out a shrill yelp, her eyes bolting around the room like a trapped animal's. Oh God, he had spooked her badly. For a moment, he was spooked himself. She looked.....nothing like she normally did. That cool exterior was completely eroded, and in its wake was some unrecognizable, high-strung creature.
"It's okay, Hermione," he said, using her voice for the first time in...well, ever, he supposed. Oddly enough, she blanched even at the sound of her own name, but he was relieved to see some of that frantic color drain out of her cheeks. Slowly, she seemed to collect herself.
"Professor, you gave me a fright," she said, clearly struggling to sound unperturbed.
"Yes. Though you can imagine I was similarly distressed when I heard sounds coming from this room at such an un-godly hour." Some of the old sarcasm was creeping back into his voice, and he finally felt sure enough of the situation to put his hands on his hips.
"I needed to make something," she said simply, as if this were a perfectly legitimate excuse for using his classroom after hours. She was standing directly across from him, and they were only a few meters apart.
"Yes, and lets see what that something is, shall we?" As soon as the words exited his mouth, he lunged for the cauldron she'd left by the sink. She was closer to it, of course, but clearly hadn't been expecting him to rush across the room with such fervor. Her eyes widened with astonishment at his advance, and she practically stepped aside to let him pass; at this, he assumed she had given up and was resigned to let him examine the contents of her elicit potion-making.
When he felt her yank him back by the robes, he realized she was not quite resigned, after all.
"NO!" she bellowed, and with a strength that took him by utter surprise, she hauled him down to the ground and promptly stomped on his ribs, knocking the wind clean out of his chest. Frantically, she hopped over his wheezing body and dumped the cauldron into the sink, twisting the water faucet on full blast. The potion--whatever it was--was washed away in the surge.
"That, Miss Granger.." he gasped, rising carefully from the floor, "...was a COLLASAL mistake."
His words failed to strike fear into her--in fact, if anything, she looked triumphant. "You, what do you know," she said, practically hissing. "Mistake? Ha!"
He hesitated. The pacing animal in her had returned. It disturbed him a little, but he couldn't deny that it excited him, too. Even as she stood there, chin out defiantly, he was noticing the quick rise and fall of her breasts. Being a man, he had of course casually noticed the assets of other female students over the years, but it had been nothing more than that--a casual assessment conducted by a man who was decidedly lacking any sort of female companionship. But with Hermione, he was aware of more than just her pretty face, or her ripe, strong body. The quality of electricity that he sometimes sensed in her voice, in her very movements, were at times potent enough to weaken him in the knees. He couldn't quite put his finger on what the name of this quality was, but he supposed a word like "passion" summed it up nicely. Whatever it was that Hermione lived for, she did so with passion, and no matter how he resented it, he couldn't deny that it was extremely inticing.
"You are over-excited, Miss Granger," he said, holding up his hands cautiously. "And I suspect you aren't well."
"Of course I'm not well," she said, sounding almost calm.
Severus relaxed a bit, but before he could take a step towards her, she snatched a large glass beaker off one of the tables and reeled back to let go.
He heard--and felt--the beaker smash against the wall just behind his shoulder. Tiny particulates of glass bit into his neck like unforgiving insects and he flinched, quickly ducking as she bombasted another vial in his direction.
"Stop it Miss Granger!" he warned, pulling his wand out.
She looked at him evenly. "I don't answer to you," she said, her mouth pressed into a firm little line. He nearly stopped in his tracks. What did she mean by that?
"I mean it," he said, raising his wand, pressing a few paces forward.
"So do I." She was lifting a large bunsen burner now, exhaling as she hauled back to let him have it. He had seen her arm at Quidditch practice--he doubted she would miss.
"Stupefy!" he shouted, and she gasped and doubled over as if punched in the stomach, then her eyes rolled back, showing only a thin sliver of white as she teetered back on her heels.
She collapsed to the floor neatly, and the bunsen burner landed with a clamor beside her.
---
Ten minutes later, Hermione was draped in Snape's armchair, her head lolled painfully to one side, almost dipping down into her underarm. Just looking at that position made his neck ache, and Severus tucked a small pillow behind her head to keep it better propped up. He pulled up a high-backed desk chair and sat directly across from her, watching for the first stirs of consciousness. The stun he had laid on her was a doozy--he expected she might be out for as much as another half-hour.
After she had collapsed, Snape had struggled to carry her back to his classroom; she was heavier than she looked, owing no doubt to the nicely muscled flanks he was supporting with his left arm. When he had readjusted his hold on her, he got a handful of something other than her flesh--a heavy, oblong flask that she had hidden in the deep pocket of her house coat.
He reached into his own pocket and fingered the vial that he felt there now: it was filled with two tablespoons of the thick, nearly translucent potion that she'd housed in the flask. He was certain that it was the same thing she had been brewing earlier, and if he failed to get any sort of confession out of her, he could always study the chemical components of the sample later.
Either way, he was going to find out what she had been up to.
Noticing that her legs were exposed from knee to ankle (her feet outfitted in some ridiculous pompom edged socks), he walked back to his own bedroom and unfolded a woolly quilt from the edge of his bed. He shook it out in preparation to cover her up, but as soon as he got near enough to do so, he was surprised to find that her eyes were open, and that she was following his movements with glazed interest. He hesitated for a moment, and when she made no move of her own, he went ahead and spread the quilt over her--not quite daring to tuck it in around her.
He lowered himself back into his own chair, crossing his legs somewhat debonairly. "You'll find it difficult to move for a moment," he cautioned, noticing that she was sitting quite rigidly.
She nodded her head carefully, then shook it from side to side as if trying to clear it of cobwebs. "You stunned me," she said, and rather than sounding accusatory, as he expected, she seemed almost appreciative--as if she herself didn't really blame him for what had transpired.
"Yes," he said, studying her carefully. She had calmed considerably, and even seemed comfortable at the moment, finally flexing her fingers and reaching up to smooth that wild hair.
"I'm sorry, Professor," she said, not quite meeting his gaze. "I didn't mean to break into your classroom."
"The fact that you broke in matters little, Miss Granger," he said, being very careful to keep his tone neutral. "I am more curious as to *why* you broke in."
She sighed and tipped her head back, as if looking to the ceiling for answers. "As you know, I am hoping to be Head Girl next year," she began. "But as of late I've been concerned that my grade in potions may keep me out of the running. I only wanted to practice the Drosophilius potion before our pre-holiday exams."
He cocked an eyebrow at her, and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. "You mean to tell me.." he started, his voice idle. "...that I was attacked by flying beakers for the sake of your 'practicing potions' session?"
She finally met his eyes, then swallowed. "I can see that you don't believe me."
"I don't."
She leaned forward, and with a voice he'd never quite heard from her before--a very adult, oddly entrusting voice, she said: "Your disbelief is warranted. But I can't tell you what I was making in your classroom, or why I had to do it in secret."
He gave her an appraising look, and sensed that she was silently pleading with him to accept her words. "You *can't* tell me...or you won't?" he asked.
She paused. "Both," she said finally.
He leaned back, realizing that he had, in fact, neatly entrapped her. "Very well," he said, barely able to contain his own cunning. "I won't force you to reveal the clandestine nature of this evening's events. But I hope you realize, Miss Granger, that you will *owe* me for my silence."
She looked immediately uncomfortable, picking up on the explicit undertones of his words, and he felt quite buoyant as he saw her mull them over in her mind. What he wasn't expecting was the expression of haughty flirtation that slowly crept over her face, putting a high blush into her cheeks. She parted her lips slightly--those adorable bee-stung lips--and curled them into a knowing smile. She rose, fully mobile now, and both the quilt and housecoat fell from her shoulders. Wearing nothing but that thin, over-sized tee-shirt, he could more than adequately follow every aching line of her body as she stood in front of the fire, looking suddenly lit from within.
"I *owe* you?" she said, deliberate, then dropped down to all fours before his feet and arched her back like some sort of sensuous hell-cat. Snape felt beads of sweat pop out along his forehead, and was suddenly very sorry that he had started this at all. She was turning the tables on him, and that was something he never enjoyed, not one little bit.
Amazingly, she placed a hand on each of his knees and spread his legs without a trace of visible shame, grinning up at him in a way that was no longer flirtatious, but decidedly devious. He knew such expressions when he saw them--he was a master at them, after all. "Can I pay you now, professor? Or are you hoping to hold me off and collect interest?"
It was that word... "professor"...that reeled him back to earth, quite thunderstruck at the scene unfolding before him. He leaned forward and clutched a fist-full of curls at the crown of her head, thrusting her head back roughly. "WHAT do you think you're doing, Miss Granger? Have you taken leave of your senses?"
She stared at him, still suspended by the hair, and promptly burst into tears. He let go, and she scrambled up to her feet and back into her robe, sobbing heavily. "I have to get out of here," she sniffled, her voice thick. "I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm doing anymore. I have to go."
"Wait," he said, placing a hand on her shoulder. She shook it off and hurried towards the door, but he remained fast on her heels. "We can talk, Hermione," he said, uncharacteristically concerned. "If there's something wrong, we can talk."
"We can't," she said, the tears halting. She put one hand on the doorknob, prepared to leave, then flashed him a quick, painful glance over her shoulder.
He stood there helplessly, and was bewildered when she let go the doorknob and squeezed him into a hug, clinging desperately to him for a moment or two before pushing away again.
"Sorry" she whispered again, then disappeared into the dark hallway.
***********************
Yes, this one was a little angsty. I don't know what it is, but I really enjoy putting Hermione in situations where she gets to exert a little physical violence--be it with a sword or flaming chemicals In fact, you will most likely get to see violence in the next chapter, as well. Hurrah! Anyway...if you're happy and you know please review! If you happy and you know it please review! If you're happy and you know it then....
You get the idear.
Chapter 9: Pacing the Precipice
"It was a spectacle...
No, I mean a miracle.
So then I fell like that girl from the balance beam.
A gymnasium of eyes were all holding on to me....
It was a small mistake,
sometimes that's all it takes.
- "From a Balance Beam", Bright Eyes (I can't stop listening to this new record!)
On most week-nights, Hogwarts was dead-quiet by the stroke of midnight. By then, most students were trundling up to bed, or taking showers, or finishing last-minute homework assignments in their respective house common rooms. The main part of the castle might be disrupted by Filch's footsteps as he did patrols, or by the more common Peeves-related outbursts, but down in the dungeons, all was indefinitely crystalline with silence.
Which was just how Severus Snape liked it, of course.
His own living quarters were located just a few paces down the hallway from the potions classroom itself; luckily, the Slytherin dormitory was down a different corridor entirely. Regardless of popular opinion that held the dungeons as drafty, chilly, and unpleasant, he found that his was one of the more homey areas of the castle. His rooms were low and stone-walled, but since they were underground and lacked the castle's aged windows, they were also quite warm in the winter, and pleasantly cool in the summer. A thick, tapestried-rug covered the floors, and he had magically enlarged his fireplace to accommodate his best cauldron; typically, the fire it held was so large and bright that he needed little else to illuminate the room. It was before this fire that Snape spent most of his free time; sometimes working on his own potions, and other times, he merely stared into the silent, orangey flames, thinking.
Anyone who had judged Severus Snape to be calculating, sarcastic, and dour would have been dead on the nose, no doubt. He was often labeled as a misanthrope, and didn't really feel any shame in the label; in his experience, most people really *weren't* worth much more than pocket lint. All those grass-is-greener types who walked around thinking humans were basically good and decent were, in his eyes, frightfully misguided. People were, above all, selfish and hedonistic--himself included, at times. He saw no point in pretending otherwise.
This was one of the many reasons why Severus Snape saw to it that Harry Potter never received one iota of special treatment from his own hands; the boy was already gazed upon by mostly worshipful eyes, and if he ever came to see himself as flawless--as so many others seemed to see him--he would be doomed. And if Severus himself took a little bit of pleasure in pointing out the boy's weaknesses publicly. . .well, he had never claimed to be perfect either, had he?
No, Snape knew he was far from perfect himself. In fact, scarcely a day went by when he wasn't reminded of those imperfections. The dark mark was, of course, the biggest reminder--that one-way wiring to Voldemort, which kept him under the Dark Lord's watchful gaze at all times. Those who thought that Snape rarely left the castle because he hated to go out in public would be wrong--he simply *couldn't* leave the castle without special precautions, no matter how may have wanted otherwise. Currently, his position as a death-eater was considered borderline-traitorous. After his recent ascension, Voldemort had surely come to realize that Severus he had been pulling the cloak-and-dagger act during these last fifteen years, and the other death-eaters were slowly beginning to question his loyalty, too.
There was only one small--but significant--use that the dark-mark served him, and that was the ability to sense the nearness and activities of other death-eaters. It gave him no insight into the mind of Voldemort himself, unfortunately, but he was fairly sure that the other death-eaters were unaware that he had trained himself to tune in on their movements. He hoped so, as it was the only advantage he currently possessed.
The last time he had sensed the closeness of another death-eater, he had assumed it was merely triggered by Ivan Karakoff's presence during the Tri-Wizard Tournament. Barty Crouch Jr. had been a second-generation death eater of sorts, and his presence had been too remote, too alien for Snape to attune to. Since then, Snape had increased his telepathic experiments with the dark mark. He knew he was increasing his chances of having his own presence sensed in return, but he felt an undeniable duty to not let anything or anyone connected to the death-eaters pass under his radar again.
He rubbed at the mark absently; there was little activity to pick up on now, but just this weekend--right around Halloween--he had picked up a strong signal from it, one so strong it had caused him a short bought of nausea. -Who is it that you're on the hunt for...?- he wondered silently. -Who is this 'one' that protects Harry Potter?-
The message troubled him deeply. Harry Potter had many protectors: himself, for one--though he may not be the obvious or first choice; then there were the other teachers, Dumbledore, McGonagall, Hagrid, and Black, most notably. Snape was of course aware of Black's identity as Potter's godfather, and though he disliked Black a great deal, he had promised Dumbledore that he would not reveal the two's private connection. Certainly, Black's arrival could be attracting the death-eaters' attentions.
-But lets not forget Granger and Weasley. . .- Snape added to himself. Those two alone had certainly rescued Harry Potter from more scrapes than all of the Hogwart's staff combined, much to his own annoyance.
At this thought, Snape felt a slight pulse in his arm. Whoever the death-eaters were looking for, they were getting closer to finding them.
Quite contemplative, he settled back in his chair and stared into the fire, feeling his eyelids grow leaden with fatigue. Just as he was about to doze away, he heard an unmistakable *pop*--distant, but unmistakable nonetheless--and his eyes blinked back open as if spring-loaded. The noise hadn't come from the fire, that much he knew. No, to a trained potions master, the noise was all too familiar, too associated with deep feelings of triumph and pride.
It was the satisfying *pop* of a perfectly completed potion.
---
Other than Filch and Mrs. Norris, there was only one other soul wandering the halls of Hogwarts that night. As a prefect, Hermione could move throughout the castle after hours with little worry of being punished, which, she thought caustically, was a good thing, seeing as how she would have little patience with anyone in a position of authority right now.
This first week of November had been a difficult one for Hermione. Following the admittedly festive high-jinx of Halloween, she was now kicking herself for neglecting to stay on guard. This was in part due to Ron's mysterious attackers inside the Dungeon of Doom; like Sirius, she was skeptical as to the possibility of *real* death-eaters inside Hogwarts. Security had been upped dramatically since the impostor Moody's sojourn at the castle, but someone *had* tried to stun Ron for reason. If they'd wanted to scare him, or even hurt him, they could have easily done so without attempting to knock him unconscious.
Besides, while there may have been no death-eaters in the Hogwarts vicinity, there were many *children* of death-eaters right under this very roof, some of whom might be currently training towards being death-eaters themselves--a fact which hadn't left Hermione's mind for many days. Not since Monday morning, in particular , when at breakfast she'd gotten a delivery from a school barn-owl. It was a small folded note on distressingly familiar parchment.
"Tell your friends who you are, or I will."
A threat. A small one, perhaps--one that didn't put herself or her friends in immediate danger, but it was enough. Someone was trying to force her hand. Someone concerned for Harry and Ron's well being? Maybe.
Maybe not.
She had murmured a quick charm and reduced the note to ash. This one she would keep from Dumbledore.
"What was that?" Harry asked, poking at the ash with the end of his spoon. "Did McGonagall send you a note saying you got less than one-hundred percent on our last Transfiguration exam?"
She had said nothing in reply, only gathered her books and went straight back to the dormitory. She missed the first twenty minutes of Arithmancy looking through her large steamer trunk, frantically tossing out old spell books, mis-matched socks, and quill-stubs. When the trunk was entirely empty, she muttered "Alohomora" and the false bottom came unlocked, springing open. There were only a few things in the secret compartment: some dangerous potion-making ingredients, for one, along with a fallacy stone and small vial of phoenix tears--she also had an official copy of Hermione Granger's birth certificate in here (though she had no idea where Dumbledore had actually acquired the latter). What she didn't have, unfortunately, was the usual years-worth of VesClotho. That flask was empty. Why oh why hadn't she made a full-years supply over the summer?
It was that damned fairy-lash, of course. She'd only had enough to finish off a single dose.
But she had to have more. Some might have said that the physical differences between a near 17 year old and a near 23 year old weren't that vast, which was certainly true enough. But if someone aged those six full years in a matter of days, the change would be noticeable. Even something subtle, like a change in voice, for example, could pique someone's attention.
This was because VesClotho was something far more special than a mere youth potion. It was the ultimate disguise, in that regard. Rather than merely altering physical appearance, the potion had a profound confundus effect that repelled the efforts of anyone hoping to "unmask" the user. This was why Hermione could alter nothing more than her eye and hair color (and only slightly, at that) and still never remind past professors of the one and only Helena Black. Helena had been a stand-out student at Hogwarts--top of her class and all--and a slight change in coloring would have never thrown off canny individuals like Snape and McGonagall. Nor would it have averted the roaming Auror's eye of the impostor Moody. But that same slight change in looks, combined with the powers of VesClotho, worked wonders. Those who had known Helena could look openly at Hermione and would simply never think to connect the two together.
But as the potion wore away, she grew increasingly worried that someone attentive would see her raise her hand in class, or would notice her particular habit of crossing her legs just at the ankles, and think to themselves: "Doesn't that Hermione Granger remind you of Helena Black?" "Why yes, yes she does, come to think of it....how curious."
That's why she had to sneak down to the potions classroom in the dead of night, just to brew up the right amount of Vesclotho. It wouldn't have been impossible to brew the potion up in her room, or even in one of the prefect bathrooms, but seeing as how she was out of fairy-lash, she would have to raid the classroom supply cabinet anyway. Interestingly enough, fairy-lash was considered a fairly useless potion-making element, and was therefore not locked up in Snape's private stores. Girls sometimes smudged it on their cheeks or eyelids like a silvery blush, and it tended to make potions taste quite pleasant, but only Hermione seemed to have discovered its youth-altering effects.
When she reached the entrance to the dungeons Hermione paused, reconsidering what she was about to do. -Just fetch the fairy-lash and leave...- she told herself sternly. But she knew that was out of the question. She needed the Vesclotho as quickly as possible--nothing less would do. Just that morning she had woken up coated in sweat, quite on the verge of a full-on panic attack; she had bounded out of bed and rushed to Parvati's full length mirror, frenzied, convinced she would see an ancient, wizened crone staring back at her. She knew she would not rest until she had the potion, and the fastest and easiest way to get it would be to just mix it up in Snape's classroom that very night, and pray to the Gods that she wouldn't be found out.
---
Snape couldn't believe his eyes. Hermione Granger was in his classroom at nearly 2 o'clock in the morning, making a potion.
It was the noise that had drawn him out of his private room, aware that someone else was in the dungeons with him; instead of entering the classroom directly, he quietly skulked into the off-limits storage room that served as a short corridor between his office and the potions classroom itself, and cracked the storage room door open just slightly--enough so that he could get a very clear view of Hermione Granger, who was busy returning some jars into the everyday supply cabinet. -Whatever she's doing, I doubt it's for extra credit...- he thought shrewdly, just before making his move.
He exited the storage room and shut the door behind him with an audible *snick*. Amazingly, Granger didn't look up from what she was doing, which was, at the moment, transferring a cauldron over to the sink-area, looking as if she were preparing to dump extra potion down the drain. Her hair was a mass of un-tamed curls that stood up crazily on one side of her head. There were dull circles under her eyes, and instead of school robes she was wearing a long gray tee-shirt, topped only by a thin, terry-cloth housecoat. If he hadn't known better, he might have mistaken her for a sleep-walker.
"Miss Granger. . ." he began, in a voice that sounded surprisingly gentle, even to him.
She jumped as if electrocuted, and let out a shrill yelp, her eyes bolting around the room like a trapped animal's. Oh God, he had spooked her badly. For a moment, he was spooked himself. She looked.....nothing like she normally did. That cool exterior was completely eroded, and in its wake was some unrecognizable, high-strung creature.
"It's okay, Hermione," he said, using her voice for the first time in...well, ever, he supposed. Oddly enough, she blanched even at the sound of her own name, but he was relieved to see some of that frantic color drain out of her cheeks. Slowly, she seemed to collect herself.
"Professor, you gave me a fright," she said, clearly struggling to sound unperturbed.
"Yes. Though you can imagine I was similarly distressed when I heard sounds coming from this room at such an un-godly hour." Some of the old sarcasm was creeping back into his voice, and he finally felt sure enough of the situation to put his hands on his hips.
"I needed to make something," she said simply, as if this were a perfectly legitimate excuse for using his classroom after hours. She was standing directly across from him, and they were only a few meters apart.
"Yes, and lets see what that something is, shall we?" As soon as the words exited his mouth, he lunged for the cauldron she'd left by the sink. She was closer to it, of course, but clearly hadn't been expecting him to rush across the room with such fervor. Her eyes widened with astonishment at his advance, and she practically stepped aside to let him pass; at this, he assumed she had given up and was resigned to let him examine the contents of her elicit potion-making.
When he felt her yank him back by the robes, he realized she was not quite resigned, after all.
"NO!" she bellowed, and with a strength that took him by utter surprise, she hauled him down to the ground and promptly stomped on his ribs, knocking the wind clean out of his chest. Frantically, she hopped over his wheezing body and dumped the cauldron into the sink, twisting the water faucet on full blast. The potion--whatever it was--was washed away in the surge.
"That, Miss Granger.." he gasped, rising carefully from the floor, "...was a COLLASAL mistake."
His words failed to strike fear into her--in fact, if anything, she looked triumphant. "You, what do you know," she said, practically hissing. "Mistake? Ha!"
He hesitated. The pacing animal in her had returned. It disturbed him a little, but he couldn't deny that it excited him, too. Even as she stood there, chin out defiantly, he was noticing the quick rise and fall of her breasts. Being a man, he had of course casually noticed the assets of other female students over the years, but it had been nothing more than that--a casual assessment conducted by a man who was decidedly lacking any sort of female companionship. But with Hermione, he was aware of more than just her pretty face, or her ripe, strong body. The quality of electricity that he sometimes sensed in her voice, in her very movements, were at times potent enough to weaken him in the knees. He couldn't quite put his finger on what the name of this quality was, but he supposed a word like "passion" summed it up nicely. Whatever it was that Hermione lived for, she did so with passion, and no matter how he resented it, he couldn't deny that it was extremely inticing.
"You are over-excited, Miss Granger," he said, holding up his hands cautiously. "And I suspect you aren't well."
"Of course I'm not well," she said, sounding almost calm.
Severus relaxed a bit, but before he could take a step towards her, she snatched a large glass beaker off one of the tables and reeled back to let go.
He heard--and felt--the beaker smash against the wall just behind his shoulder. Tiny particulates of glass bit into his neck like unforgiving insects and he flinched, quickly ducking as she bombasted another vial in his direction.
"Stop it Miss Granger!" he warned, pulling his wand out.
She looked at him evenly. "I don't answer to you," she said, her mouth pressed into a firm little line. He nearly stopped in his tracks. What did she mean by that?
"I mean it," he said, raising his wand, pressing a few paces forward.
"So do I." She was lifting a large bunsen burner now, exhaling as she hauled back to let him have it. He had seen her arm at Quidditch practice--he doubted she would miss.
"Stupefy!" he shouted, and she gasped and doubled over as if punched in the stomach, then her eyes rolled back, showing only a thin sliver of white as she teetered back on her heels.
She collapsed to the floor neatly, and the bunsen burner landed with a clamor beside her.
---
Ten minutes later, Hermione was draped in Snape's armchair, her head lolled painfully to one side, almost dipping down into her underarm. Just looking at that position made his neck ache, and Severus tucked a small pillow behind her head to keep it better propped up. He pulled up a high-backed desk chair and sat directly across from her, watching for the first stirs of consciousness. The stun he had laid on her was a doozy--he expected she might be out for as much as another half-hour.
After she had collapsed, Snape had struggled to carry her back to his classroom; she was heavier than she looked, owing no doubt to the nicely muscled flanks he was supporting with his left arm. When he had readjusted his hold on her, he got a handful of something other than her flesh--a heavy, oblong flask that she had hidden in the deep pocket of her house coat.
He reached into his own pocket and fingered the vial that he felt there now: it was filled with two tablespoons of the thick, nearly translucent potion that she'd housed in the flask. He was certain that it was the same thing she had been brewing earlier, and if he failed to get any sort of confession out of her, he could always study the chemical components of the sample later.
Either way, he was going to find out what she had been up to.
Noticing that her legs were exposed from knee to ankle (her feet outfitted in some ridiculous pompom edged socks), he walked back to his own bedroom and unfolded a woolly quilt from the edge of his bed. He shook it out in preparation to cover her up, but as soon as he got near enough to do so, he was surprised to find that her eyes were open, and that she was following his movements with glazed interest. He hesitated for a moment, and when she made no move of her own, he went ahead and spread the quilt over her--not quite daring to tuck it in around her.
He lowered himself back into his own chair, crossing his legs somewhat debonairly. "You'll find it difficult to move for a moment," he cautioned, noticing that she was sitting quite rigidly.
She nodded her head carefully, then shook it from side to side as if trying to clear it of cobwebs. "You stunned me," she said, and rather than sounding accusatory, as he expected, she seemed almost appreciative--as if she herself didn't really blame him for what had transpired.
"Yes," he said, studying her carefully. She had calmed considerably, and even seemed comfortable at the moment, finally flexing her fingers and reaching up to smooth that wild hair.
"I'm sorry, Professor," she said, not quite meeting his gaze. "I didn't mean to break into your classroom."
"The fact that you broke in matters little, Miss Granger," he said, being very careful to keep his tone neutral. "I am more curious as to *why* you broke in."
She sighed and tipped her head back, as if looking to the ceiling for answers. "As you know, I am hoping to be Head Girl next year," she began. "But as of late I've been concerned that my grade in potions may keep me out of the running. I only wanted to practice the Drosophilius potion before our pre-holiday exams."
He cocked an eyebrow at her, and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. "You mean to tell me.." he started, his voice idle. "...that I was attacked by flying beakers for the sake of your 'practicing potions' session?"
She finally met his eyes, then swallowed. "I can see that you don't believe me."
"I don't."
She leaned forward, and with a voice he'd never quite heard from her before--a very adult, oddly entrusting voice, she said: "Your disbelief is warranted. But I can't tell you what I was making in your classroom, or why I had to do it in secret."
He gave her an appraising look, and sensed that she was silently pleading with him to accept her words. "You *can't* tell me...or you won't?" he asked.
She paused. "Both," she said finally.
He leaned back, realizing that he had, in fact, neatly entrapped her. "Very well," he said, barely able to contain his own cunning. "I won't force you to reveal the clandestine nature of this evening's events. But I hope you realize, Miss Granger, that you will *owe* me for my silence."
She looked immediately uncomfortable, picking up on the explicit undertones of his words, and he felt quite buoyant as he saw her mull them over in her mind. What he wasn't expecting was the expression of haughty flirtation that slowly crept over her face, putting a high blush into her cheeks. She parted her lips slightly--those adorable bee-stung lips--and curled them into a knowing smile. She rose, fully mobile now, and both the quilt and housecoat fell from her shoulders. Wearing nothing but that thin, over-sized tee-shirt, he could more than adequately follow every aching line of her body as she stood in front of the fire, looking suddenly lit from within.
"I *owe* you?" she said, deliberate, then dropped down to all fours before his feet and arched her back like some sort of sensuous hell-cat. Snape felt beads of sweat pop out along his forehead, and was suddenly very sorry that he had started this at all. She was turning the tables on him, and that was something he never enjoyed, not one little bit.
Amazingly, she placed a hand on each of his knees and spread his legs without a trace of visible shame, grinning up at him in a way that was no longer flirtatious, but decidedly devious. He knew such expressions when he saw them--he was a master at them, after all. "Can I pay you now, professor? Or are you hoping to hold me off and collect interest?"
It was that word... "professor"...that reeled him back to earth, quite thunderstruck at the scene unfolding before him. He leaned forward and clutched a fist-full of curls at the crown of her head, thrusting her head back roughly. "WHAT do you think you're doing, Miss Granger? Have you taken leave of your senses?"
She stared at him, still suspended by the hair, and promptly burst into tears. He let go, and she scrambled up to her feet and back into her robe, sobbing heavily. "I have to get out of here," she sniffled, her voice thick. "I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm doing anymore. I have to go."
"Wait," he said, placing a hand on her shoulder. She shook it off and hurried towards the door, but he remained fast on her heels. "We can talk, Hermione," he said, uncharacteristically concerned. "If there's something wrong, we can talk."
"We can't," she said, the tears halting. She put one hand on the doorknob, prepared to leave, then flashed him a quick, painful glance over her shoulder.
He stood there helplessly, and was bewildered when she let go the doorknob and squeezed him into a hug, clinging desperately to him for a moment or two before pushing away again.
"Sorry" she whispered again, then disappeared into the dark hallway.
***********************
Yes, this one was a little angsty. I don't know what it is, but I really enjoy putting Hermione in situations where she gets to exert a little physical violence--be it with a sword or flaming chemicals In fact, you will most likely get to see violence in the next chapter, as well. Hurrah! Anyway...if you're happy and you know please review! If you happy and you know it please review! If you're happy and you know it then....
You get the idear.
