Disclaimer: I own neither the characters nor the settings, which are all property of J.K. Rowling. I'm not making any money from this, just wasting time, so please don't sue.
"What have you done?" she whispered.

Blaise spun around and struggled back into his shirt. "Hermione, calm down, please –"

"Calm down?" she yelled, cutting him off. "Calm down?!"

"It's nothing, it's not important, it's not even real," Blaise babbled, trying desperately to quiet her.

"The Dark Mark is carved into your back, and it's nothing?" She hissed as she pulled her shoes and socks on.

"Please Hermione –"

Before he could even finish his sentence, she had pulled her robe over her head, and was out the door. By the time Blaise had dressed and made it out into the corridor, she was gone.

For four days, she avoided him. She neither met his eye nor lingered near enough to him that words might be exchanged. Any note pressed into her hand or slipped into her satchel was flushed down the toilet without ever having been read.

Hermione was furious, true, but there was more to it. She was also terrified, miserable and confused, but, above all, she felt horribly, horribly betrayed.

She simply couldn't understand why Blaise wouldn't tell her about the thing on his back. And how could Pomfrey have missed it? Did they hold him down and do it, or did he let them, wanting the Mark somewhere no one would see it? She knew Snape's was on his inner forearm, but she had never actually seen it – in the Hospital Wing, after the Triwizard Tournament, he had only shown it to Fudge. Maybe it was supposed to be cut into the skin?

After indulging all her worst fears and most shameful suspicions for a few days, letting them turn into nightmare scenarios which kept her awake for most of the night, she realised she was being foolish and impractical.

She may well have been at the centre of a complex, years-long Slytherin plot to gradually win her trust and affection, and then use that advantage to manipulate her in hopes of using her in some dastardly way, but Hermione had never been known to suffer megalomania, or such extreme bouts of imagination.

So finally, sometime early Wednesday morning, after many long, dark hours, she decided to take the only logical step.

She would talk to Snape.

7:30am came far too soon for Hermione's liking. She rolled out of bed, happy she had decided to wash her hair the night before. Regardless of how many times she practiced, she was never truly satisfied with her drying charm. It just seemed to make her hair frizz out more than usual. As she brushed her teeth, she wondered what Harry and Ron would say about her not having completely perfected a charm, let alone one as simple as a drying spell. This thought was accompanied with a pang of guilt.

She had been keeping so much from them, and she knew she was worrying them with her odd behaviour. All her excuses had become trite and worn out, and Ron still wasn't speaking to her. Harry only looked unhappy, which added an extra shadow to his already haunted eyes – Voldemort had been eerily quiet for the past few months, and the entire Wizarding world was holding its breath and watching The Boy Who Lived, as though he was some sort of evil divining rod.

Hermione hated to think that she was adding to the mountain of stress and fear heaped on one of her best friends. She ate breakfast quickly, listening as Ginny coolly outlined all the faults of her most recent ex-boyfriend, a Quidditch-playing Ravenclaw, known for both his good looks and his surprisingly un-scholarly attitude.

Arithmancy was slow, and Hermione found it very difficult to concentrate on the lecture. Her bottom lip was chewed to shreds by the time the class was finally over. She hid deep in the stacks of the library over lunch, her stomach too twisted and tight to want food. But Potions was by far the worst – both she and Blaise were stiff and awkward, their normal grace and anticipation of each other stilted and forced. And while Snape nodded his caustic approval of their concoction at the end of the period, Hermione felt that their complex and delicate Anaesthesium potion was barely passable, at best.

Dinner came and went, and Hermione felt like a rock in the river of conversation, as sentences split and flowed around her. Once the meal was finished, rather than following the steady trickle of her housemates up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower, Hermione slipped up to the library, and waited. She didn't want to bump into any marauding Slytherins, particularly in the dungeons. Finally, after an hour of anxious stalling, she left the library and headed down the main staircase.

The dungeons were cold and full of odd shadows, so Hermione hurried along the corridor, trying to calm her stomach by reciting the twelve uses of dragon's blood. She knew Snape's office was beside his classroom, and he was usually in one place or the other most evenings, supervising detentions. As she approached, she saw that the door to the classroom was open, allowing torchlight to spill into the hallway, painting the dark stone floors orange. After taking a moment to thrust her chin forward and her shoulders back, Hermione walked into the room.

Snape was, unsurprisingly, at his desk, alternately marking papers and barking instructions at a 5th year Hufflepuff who was apparently doing a very poor job of scrubbing out dirty cauldrons. Both he and Snape looked up in surprise at Hermione.

"Can I help you, Miss Granger?" Snape said with disdain, clearly expecting some sort of request for extra credit work, or more homework.

"I don't know, sir. I hope so." Hermione said quietly.

Snape narrowed his eyes and watched her carefully for a moment. He nodded, and then glared at the Hufflepuff. "I don't recall telling you to take a break, Summerby. I expect to you to have at least five of those cauldrons spotless by the time I return, or you'll be serving detention with Mr. Filch for the rest of the week."

The boy started scrubbing frantically, and Snape stood up and slid around his desk. He swept through the room and past Hermione out into the corridor. She trotted after him, wringing her hands together nervously.

She followed him into his office, and stood awkwardly by a chair in front of his desk as he shut the door. Snape swept past her and settled into his chair. He looked at her for a beat, and sighed.

"Sit down, Miss Granger. That's what the chair is for."

Hermione perched on the seat and stared down at her hands. She could feel Snape's eyes boring into the top of her head.

"As entertaining as this is, I do have work to do, so please get on with it," he finally snapped, startling Hermione into looking up.

"Sir...I...I don't know how to say this."

Snape rolled his eyes and made an irritated noise in the back of his throat.

"I'm sorry," she continued, staring at her lap again, "it's just that this is a...delicate topic, and I don't want to put anyone in danger."

Snape was silent, and Hermione finally looked up at him. He was watching her, concentration or concern creasing his brow.

"You have my attention, Miss Granger," Snape said quietly. "And I would hope that by this point you would understand that as a professor at Hogwarts who works for Headmaster Dumbledore, you can place a certain degree of trust in me. However, you must also realise that I'm not known for my patience, so either speak or leave."

Hermione sat up a little straighter, partially with indignation at his innuendo that she still bore childish grudges, despite Snape's work for the Order. Reminding herself that Gryffindors were known for their bravery, she spoke: "There's someone I'm worried about."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "If you're referring to Potter, I'm absolutely certain Professor McGonagall would be a better counsellor than I. So if you don't mind –"

"It's not about Harry. It's...someone else. Someone in Slytherin."

Snape sat back in his chair, and looked at Hermione closely. She took it as a sign to proceed.

"I think he's in danger, but I'm not sure if that's entirely true, and it could have something to do with Voldemort. And that means it would be Order business, I do know that, but he's also still a student, and since he's in your house, I thought I should come to you."

Hermione paused and took a breath. Snape was watching her coldly, but didn't make any move to speak, so she continued. "He doesn't want to go to Dumbledore, and has refused to speak to anyone, you included. And for a while things weren't too bad, so it didn't really matter. But lately everything's been getting worse, and I just didn't know what to do. And I know Dumbledore couldn't really help, because the Slytherins all can't stand him. But you...you're the only one who really looks out for them."

Snape's eyes widened briefly at Hermione's last statement, and she felt a flash of shame for the way Slytherin House had been treated. That feeling was quickly pushed aside, replaced with anger. It was too easy to blame Voldemort, biased parents, the ignorance of the Wizarding World in general and Snape for coddling all the little vipers. Far easier, in fact, than thinking about how most of the students of the other houses, and even some of the staff members, vilify and ostracise Slytherins, and how, rather than trying to reach out to them, treat them like monsters rather than children who, for the most part, simply don't know any better. It was too painful for Hermione to think that she was partially responsible for Malfoy, and for what happened to Blaise.

"Sir, I'm afraid they're going to seriously hurt him."

"Who is?" Snape said suddenly, catching Hermione off-guard. He had brought his elbows to rest on the table in front of him and now he steepled his fingers together, in front of his chest. That, combined with the intense and faintly warning tone of voice set off a siren inside Hermione's head, but she was too stubborn to back down.

"Well...the other Slytherins, sir. Malfoy and his goons."

"Miss Granger, you are very wrong in assuming that I am at all unaware of what goes on in my house. If any one of my students were in real and imminent danger, I would intercede on their behalf in any way I could. I can appreciate your concern, but there is nothing to be done. So if you don't mind, I have work to do." Snape began gathering a pile of parchments together, and Hermione knew she had been dismissed. It was all she could do to keep her jaw from dropping.

"But...sir, he's your student..."

"Yes, I'm aware of that," Snape said, still not looking up at her.

He's going to leave, and he won't do anything, and Blaise will be killed, she thought. Hermione's hands clenched into fists, and the anger which had slowly been bubbling up inside her through the entire conversation reached critical mass.

"You coward! You're just going to let them kill him, aren't you? You couldn't be arsed to even lift a finger to save him – you're more concerned with protecting horrible little bastards like Malfoy!"

Snape continued to stare impassively at her from across his desk. The only indication that he even heard her outburst was one raised eyebrow. He linked his fingers together in front of him, and began to speak.

"Miss Granger, you are a Gryffindor, and as such are prone to not only jumping to conclusions, but also to inserting both of your feet into your mouth at the same time. But, luckily for you, I will not give you a permanent detention for what you just said, nor take so many points from Gryffindor that your blasted house will have to struggle for years just to get its points back into positive numbers. But let me make this perfectly clear – you have no comprehension of the levels upon which Slytherin House operates.

"If I were to openly protect Zabini – don't look so dismayed girl, I knew you were referring to him the entire time – I would not only sign my own death warrant but his as well, and lose the trust and respect of those children I was in the process of turning away from the...dominant ideology within my house. So no, I can't help him, not outwardly. He needs to help himself."

Snape sat back and watched the colour drain slowly out of Hermione's face. She looked down at her now slack hands.

"And in regards Malfoy," he continued, "he is still a child, and in my care. As such, I have a duty to protect him as well, and to hopefully impart some knowledge in the process."

Hermione wasn't really listening, but Snape's last sentence caught her attention. She looked up, slightly bemused.

"Impart some knowledge...?" she repeated, her eyes widening. "Of course. You have to act in such a way that when he reports to his father, you come across as a loyal disciple of Voldemort."

Snape smiled faintly and pushed his chair back. He leant back and linked his fingers together, resting his hands in his lap. "What an interesting idea, Miss Granger. You should return to your tower now, before you end up being out after curfew, and I am forced to take points."

Hermione shook her head. "I think I'm finally beginning to understand all of what you do for the Order. That doesn't mean I have to like it, or accept it."

Snape's eyes widened suddenly, then narrowed. Hermione noticed that his hands, still clasped loosely in front of him, began to constrict till his knuckles turned white.

"Frankly, I don't care if you like it or not. Now, it's time for you to leave."

"You can't dismiss me that easily!" she cried. "What about Blaise! You can't just allow them to keep on hurting him!"

Snape stood up so quickly his chair almost toppled backwards. He glared down at her, and Hermione instinctively shrank back, suddenly very afraid.

"Perhaps, Miss Granger," he hissed through gritted teeth, "I am not the one in a position to protect Zabini. I am not the reason his housemates are rejecting him – you are."

Hermione stared at him in horror for a long moment. Then she jumped out of her chair and ran out the door and down the corridor. Her mind was buzzing with hatred towards Snape for repeating what Blaise had said, but without the anger and fear that had been in the boy's voice which had allowed her to dismiss it then.

And while she was running away from Snape and his damnable talent for seeing the truth, too furious to think or question what she had seen and observed, Snape strode around his desk and firmly shut the door behind her.

She didn't see his face twisting in pain, nor his left arm twitching and shaking. She didn't see him release the wards on the door into his private rooms, and stride quickly through them, Accio'ing a black, hooded robe and featureless mask as he went. She didn't see him scribbling, sealing and heavily warding a note to Dumbledore, and she certainly didn't see him leaving through the secret passage which led to a small copse of trees, just inside the main gates.