Minutes later she knocked on his office's door, preparing a credible apology in her mind. When she was confident with the phrasing, she knocked again, but was defied an answer again. She took a deep breath of the chill, if slightly mouldy air. Then the familiar shriek of the heavy door to their classroom signaled a presence. She turned and headed toward it.

Instead of empty seats in narrowly arranged array, as to be expected at this hour, the room appeared to be filled with students. Fine green and silver lines at the collars of their robes identified them as Slytherins. Most had lowered their gazes upon parchments and chopping boards, but when she walked up to the desk at the front with Snape at it, she felt their eyes in her back, watching her every move. Last one to pass by was a blonde, slim figure, pulling tiny orbs from a bowl of slimy, yellowish and dotted balls. Eels eyes, she realized, struck with horror. Theodor Nott had taken a seat in the front row.

Heart racing painfully, Hermione forced herself to keep a straight face when stepping up the low podium with Snape's desk and the marble kettle on it.

"Miss Granger, I recall assigning you to this appointment due to your wits and reliability", Snape sneered at her, "It's thirteen minutes past eight. That will be thirteen points from Gryffindor accordingly."

"I am sorry", she gulped, a certain thick clot rising in her throat, "to be late."

"You know what to do." With a flick of his wand, instructions in tight handwriting appeared on the board behind him. While she was watching, most of them got crossed out by an invisible hand, leaving only two lines of them to be followed.

The witch or wizard shall recognize the end of its maturing process by the emergence of Narcissus, and from this point onwards...

During the previous appointments, she had been standing next to him, casting a glance over at the book or parchment he was reading, occasionally adding a remark to his corrections in an unknown student's homework. With half the Inquisitorial Squad sitting through detention with her, she realized, a spot at the table's side might be the better choice. She would only have to look at the kettle straight ahead and the board to her right, ignoring the Slytherins completely.

In contrast to most of her classmates, and probably every Squad member in the room, the instruction on the board was perfectly clear to her. She bend over, careful not to inhale to much of the steam, and registered that the smooth surface had turned into a perfect mirror. Enigmatic, she commented silently on the description, but not too hard to understand.

… from this point onwards the subdued calorific energy mediates its transition: The surface must not be touched by any wand, substance or artifact until a fraction occurs by transformed energy.

That took her la little longer, but turned out accessible, too. I'm supposed to raise the temperature until bubbles rise, she concluded. She drew her wand, stacked and stirred the flames beneath the kettle to a medium sized fire, and went on to the last line, while the potion started to heat up.

To preserve the melange, it must be seasoned with eight ounces of dust from dried mermaid scales, for the substance requires influence of densely meshed components.

So I'll need mortar and pessel, she noted, hurrying off to the student's cupboard of ingredients, And scales always come as found in the stomachs of crabs, unevenly digested, so I'll have to cut them first.

Commonly used in potions, Snape held a large stock of the scales, and she had no trouble getting a decent amount. Moreover, 'seasoning' implied a small amount to suffice. Hermione's heart rose considerably, as end to these secretive, abusive Thursday nights was within reach. Almost elated, she forgot about her carefully chosen position at the table, and returned to Snape's side.

She had not laid eyes on her chopping board before. But there it was, roughly carved into the wood, ruining the tool.

MUDBLOOD

Taking in the chilly, musty air had changed to hard, stinging breaths, filling her chest.

Here. Under Snape's eyes. Then the sudden rush of fear was replaced by adamant pride: I've been chosen for this among all these idiots who pride themselves having been born to their parents, she reminded herself. So don't I fret before you cowards.

Her rage was back.

Or that's what made her hands shake, she told herself. Hermione covered the scratches with scales and began cutting with the silver blade Snape must have prepared for her. Within seconds, her hands were bleeding from several cuts, as her hands were hardly in control. The deep red liquid spread over the board and slowly filled up the slim, sharp slots. She scratched them together and poured the bloody pieces in the mortar, indifferent to the pain.

"What are you doing, Miss Granger?"

Snape had risen from his chair and stepped up to her completely unnoticed. From the corner of her eye, she witnessed Nott and two other Slytherins looking up from their dull tasks. Barely visible, he smiled.

"I do not remember reading of any organic components required", Snape said, expression blank, "So would you please stand back from this mess." He drew his wand. "Amendo vulnus."

She raised her hands a littler, inspecting the cuts. Superficial, but strangely, hurting twice as when she had ignored them.

"Vulnera sanentur."

Blood kept dripping from her fingertips.

"Miss Granger, what knife did you use on those?", Snape inquired, gesturing toward the scales.

"I did not bring my own", she replied, "Professor, I appreciate the effort, but -", she waved her head toward the marble kettle, as pointing seemed less of a clever move, "The first bubble just burst. We should finish this brew, it's a month's work."

Snape quickly cast a look over the work bench. She had spread her blood all over the place like paint on a canvas, dotted and smeared in a meaningless pattern. Yet the scales were reduced to a size suitable for grinding. He hesitated.

"Finish the potion", Hermione urged him, "Professor."

"Take a seat, Miss Granger. I insist." The address felt unwieldy, stiff - strange. She complied, pushed several parchments aside and took his seat, elbows on the table and hands up.

With another flick of his wand, her blood on the table disappeared. He worked the scales into dust with skilled turns and pressure, and just in time: The shining surface had already burst to smithereens by bubbles as he added pinch by pinch, turning it to the transparent, thin liquid Hermione had memorized as the desired result. By the time Snape reduced the flames beneath it to a single candle's flame size, her sleeves were soaked.

"Students from my house are dismissed for tonight", he raised his voice, "Yes, Nott, you too. Put the peeled eyes back into the cupboard and fry the rest of them."

Most Squad members left the dungeon delightedly, not wasting a glance toward bleeding and, by now, freezing and sweaty Hermione.

"Professor -"

"Mr Nott?"

The tall, meager Slytherin had stepped up to the work bench. "I'd like to get my knife back, if you don't mind. It's very precious to me."

"This", Snape raised the silver blade, "Is yours?", he replied.

The temperature in the dungeon might have dropped ten degrees. Hermione had never noticed his eyes to be that dark, nor or his lips that pale.

"Yes, Professor." Nott dared to look Snape directly in the eye. "A family heirloom. A gift from my mother."

"I see."

Asking again for the knife meant pushing Snape too far, Hermione realized, Nott knew very well how to handle aroused or unwilling teachers. Oddly cold sweat ran down her nose.

"Tell your mother", Snape replied, voice nothing more than a whisper now, "That I will see to a proper placement of this valuable artifact."

"Professor, I -"

"You – may - leave", her teacher added through gritted teeth. Her mind must be playing tricks on her, from nausea and shock. Nott turned around so sudden and determined that it looked as if Snape could not only read minds, but manipulate them, too.

"Accio Dittany." He caught the soaring flagon in mid-air, rushed behind the desk and knelt before her. "Here. All of it."

Greasy with fluid, the bottle threatened to slip through her fingers, but she managed to clench both hands around it long enough to raise it to her mouth, if in a distorted move. Soon after the bitter substance had touched her tongue, the nausea subsided.

"I'm afraid this will take a few minutes", Snape stated, conjuring two armrests for her, "You will understand I am not going to summon Madam Pomfrey?"

"Completely", muttered Hermione.

"Drink this up, you'll feel better", he advised, pointing to a carafe and a glass on his desk, filled with transparent liquid. "This knife was goblin made, and laid with several poisons over time, average antidotes won't work on these wounds."

"What is it?", Hermione asked, helping herself to a share, clutching the slippery handle.

"Water. Keeps you up on your feet."

"I don't feel much like on my feet right now", she uttered, but Snape had already risen and started fetching some flasks from the benches on the walls around them. Either his movements were swift to a blur, or she would better toss down the fluids. It worked an odd effect on her mind: Instead of putting it back to its usual grounded, lucid and slightly inflexible state, the water fueled a spinning carousel of the evenings impressions. She watched herself, as if walking an arm's length behind her, crossing to the work bench between the Squad members, feeling certain, a bit presumptuous perhaps about her wits. What had it got her? Bleeding, aching fingers, head and heart throbbing with anger. What were her brains worth, if she let herself be used for Umbridge's vile tactics - if she allowed herself to be hurt like this?

Snape did not seem to notice her grievance. By the time she had half emptied the carafe, he was stirring in a simple brass kettle. Bend over a potion, she observed him to exercise a sincere, attentive, yet satisfied manner, almost smiling occasionally. Had he always had these defined, trim hands?

"Try this." He summoned her glass, pulled a small ladle from the kettle and poured her a gulp of cherish yellow liquid.

"Would you mind?", she raised her hands, covered in red lines, wrapped around by wet robes.

"Of course. Lavecantar."

Her sleeves were clean and dry again. She managed to empty the cup, watching her hands. The cuts kept bleeding. Soon the first red stripe reached down to her robes again.

"Accio Zyfodil leaves", Snape murmured, fetching the leaves from his cupboard easily. "I must apologize, it should have occurred to me sooner." He poked the fire several times, then conjured another chair for himself, sat beside her and started to bandage her hands.

"You went for your strongest hand", she accepted. The slimmest of his smile let a warm, bright feeling blossom in her chest. He had sat beside her, knees next to hers, her hand half-wrapped on his own. His presence, she noticed, had poked a hole into the tank of the carousel, leaking fuel like blood leaked over his fingers now, too. His firm grip at tightening the leaves slowed it down further. "Pretty cool blooded move", he broke the silence between them, checking on the bandages of her right hand.

"I beg your -"

"Keeping up cutting the scales." Fingertips first: The leaves proved of an apt shape to cover them with one each. He covered her thumb, tied it with the stem, then cleaned the remaining skin from blood. He was not grinning, but Hermione had the distinct impression of amusement at her being twitted by her own words.

"I didn't practice", she growled, almost missing that he had probably never voiced appreciation so openly with her before. Or something close enough. "Shouldn't you hurry to bottle up the Veritaserum?"

"I am busy."

First finger next: the leaf, two circles of stem, a tiny knot. She could not help but gaze at his precise movements.

"Heat might spoil it", she said, just loud enough for him to hear it.

"I would be awfully sorry." Second finger, just as equally skilled. Her fully covered hand was not even aching any more. His bandages felt more like gloves now, but taking them off would never allow the skin to consume their components. Rolling up her sleeves might make her feel a little less dirty, but Snape did not bother to tend to her arms as well. Neither any of his attention faltered toward her thighs, pressed against his knee, occasionally touched by his ankles. If he just reached out to her shoulders, his skilled fingertips at her neck, he could easily...

Fourth finger bandaged already.

She dared not to look at him. Her mind boiled up with images of them, hugging, involved, like a dam spilling water from days of heavy summer rain. If she just leaned forward, reached out, gave him a look to show -

But that was her teacher, sitting in front of her, tying together the last parts of her dressings. A grown man, seasoned by experience, and holding high expectations to women. Perhaps he insisted on having his way in an encounter, a fierce, heated exchange of tight grasps and fluid, even rough maybe. She was not ready for that.

"Are you ok?" He must have noticed her breathing speeding up.

Slight pink on her cheeks betrayed her desperately calm manner. "Sure. Just hurts."

"I'm done", he pointed out, softly leading her hands into her lap. Desire and recoil almost tore her apart. If I could only close my mind to him.

"Professor", she managed to say in a thick, but otherwise noncommittal voice, "I still would like to learn Occlumency."

Had he flinched at the formal address? She was not sure, busy with hiding her state of mind, communicating her intentions most evidently.

"Well, as much as I appreciate the effort", he replied, a lot cooler than she had expected, "You'll hardly get to the core of it within the short time until term's end." He sprang from his seat, sending it to nothingness with a flick of his wand, and rushed to the loaded shelves around them. Hermione used the sudden loneliness to gulp down some more water, watching his back. He had turned to his potions, but did not inspect any of them, despite their incredibly dusty labels.

"However", he finally raised his voice, taking a few steps toward a loaded board, "There is something I can offer you. Here." He pulled back his stiff sleeve, reached to the back of a shelf so far she thought it must bear an Extension Charm, and with pointed fingers, pulled out a tiny bottle. The dust on it must have accumulated not in years, but within decades. She wondered whether it had been filled into dark glass or if the substance itself looked like it absorbed one's energy into its darkness. Yet, the content appeared strangely familiar.

"Miss Granger, do you recall Januarius's First Law?", he asked, uncovering the label with his sleeve.

She sat up straight, automatically, as if he had challenged her during class. "The Laws of non-linear viscosity in potions - cover matter transformations", she replied, thinking hard. Now, for the first time, she realized it must have been way past nine, after a long day under subtle, constant pressure. "The First Law applies to paradox reactions, as – uhm - liquefying solid matter and consolidating transitory states – also stabilizing volatile conditions."

"They apply to transformation processes", he corrected, "But in essence correct. Can you provide any examples of Januarius Three Laws?"

"Second covers evenly transformations, that would be Polyjuice Potion.", she replied, searching remote corners in her brain already, "And the Third Law is the principle behind the Wolfsbane brew. It describes the disconnection between changes in physical and mental states. The witch or wizard who undergoes a complete physical transformation into an alien state, bereft of any influence over it, may keep control over the volatile aspects of his being under the influence of Wolfsbane."

"The mind, so to say."

"I forgot to mention that, Professor."

"You've performed way above average", he commented in appreciation, and much to her surprise. " It takes most N.E.W.T students their remaining time at Hogwarts to achieve a basic understanding. I introduce these in my O.W.L.s class, to give you an impression of what awaits students in sixth and seventh year. These Laws have never been asked for in your upcoming exams, and I doubt they ever will."

Her relieve was soon followed by something else: exhaustion. He must have seen it on her face.

"So if I tell you, that this one", he waved the bottle a little, making it drop the remaining pieces of dust, "works the First Law on a witch or wizard, and is not strong enough to dissolve living tissues in organisms, what will happen at consumption?"

"I would -", Hermione said slowly, "Lock up my mind?"

"Induce selective stasis, but again, in essence correct."

Maybe I should take a sip, Hermione mused as her thoughts suddenly started racing again, there's no way I can sleep tonight. "And you've had this brew here in your cupboard all along?"

Fractures of their shared evenings passed by her inner eye: Those conversations at the fireplace, his exploration of past private moments, her glimpse at his thoughts he would never allow to grow into wishes – or never admit to be wishes already -?

She suddenly recognized the bottle. "This is your premature version of Wolfsbane. The one you made for Lupin in your fifth year."

"Indeed."

"Well, I recognize the achievement, Professor – but has anyone ever tried this?"

"Yes."

"But you said Lupin couldn't take your potion up to your N.E.W.T level -"

"I used this potion, on myself, before intense confrontations with the Dark Lord", he replied coolly. "Some emotions are too intense to be controlled by sheer willpower. I've made you indulge in your emotions - not mere memories. So that you knew when an emotion is encompassing you, because an Occlumens has to take counter-measurements against emotions one simply cannot distance oneself from, and therefore cannot hide. Basic Occlumency is mostly about controlling your behavior, but if you wish to truly close your mind against intruders, you need personal closure – nothing uncontrollable in your mind."

Never had she longed to know what emotions he was talking about, but they were on a distanced plain field now. He would never allow it. As she listened to what she was saying, she discovered she could not resist the temptation. "That's where passion comes in?"

She had stepped over a line, a completely invisible one, but solid as a rock. "As one of many emotions."

"This serves as an antidote to love potions as well, I presume?", she concluded, nodding toward the sombre liquid.

"It does." He threw it to her without warning, it almost slipped through her thickly bandaged hands.

"So if you ever wish to promote immediate closure to a human mind, that's my best offer. You may not take it tonight, though."

"Why not?", she inquired, chest tightening at this warning.

"It does not affect living tissue in organisms, but intact organisms only. You've bled pretty much. The substance would dissolve the coagulation and inverse closure, as it -"

" - affects transformation processes", she finished his sentence, deliberately impolite, "In reversing modus. Ever applied this to someone else accidentally?", she trampled over his boundaries.

There was no way he let her read in his face whether he understood the insinuation to his fiasco with Bellatrix. "No", he replied, voice calm and steady, "Only once on purpose." Snape visibly pulled himself together, clearly a product of acting, but it worked nonetheless.

"Thank you." She stuffed her new secret weapon into her robes.

"Then I must ask you to leave now, Miss Granger", he dismissed her, "I'll have to bottle up some truth before I can go to bed myself."