Scribbling a neat red 'Adequate' at the bottom of Miss Chang's Potions essay, Snape lifted his gaze slightly from his desk, scowling at the irritating Gryffindor in front of him.
It was easy to tell that Miss Granger was quite disturbed at the moment. Her bottom lip was already glowing in an unflattering angry shade of red, and tiny pink flushes graced her cheeks. A perfidious guilty feeling rose in his stomach, causing his quill to draw a particularly harsh line on Miss Abbott's parchment, as he tried to crush it ruthlessly.
Granger.
Seldom in his life had he felt more furious, exposed and humiliated as in the moment he had realized that it had been a student—this girl, of all people—to show him sympathy in a time of weakness. And while it still hurt to know that his heart had tricked him to believe she had been Lily, the wrath at Miss Granger's intrusion of his privacy had abated slightly over the Christmas break.
But when he had caught her this morning, looking at him, with an expression of sweet concern on her face as if he were one of those unfortunate house-elves, whom a gifted sock could free from his evil master's service, his anger had known no boundaries.
He didn't want her compassion and, most of all, he didn't deserve it.
He was not a house-elf in need or any other kind, misunderstood creature Hagrid would adopt. Hell, he was a Death Eater, somebody she should fear with all her heart—a fact Miss Granger's highly praised mind had obviously deemed insignificant in all its glory.
While knowing that this girl had chosen to show him kindness—despite the Dark Mark on his sullied left forearm—filled his soul with treacherous warmth, he would not allow for it to ever happen again.
It was a weakness. And the Dark Lord enjoyed weaknesses. He watched them, nursed them, and explored them, toyed with them only to thrust his venom into the most vulnerable spot in a useful moment.
The most vulnerable spot...
Snape swallowed.
It had been about time for the girl to learn not to waste her kindness on cursed souls like him; he would never become a pathetic, good-doing person like the miserable werewolf she called friend.
Casting a swift glance at the other upset Gryffindor in front of him, the guilty feeling stung once more. He had been unnecessarily harsh on Longbottom. The boy still cracked under pressure, and therefore he had simply been the perfect object of demonstration. These little Gryffindors were so easy to manipulate. Nothing would disgust Miss Granger more than openly displayed injustice toward one of her friends, and it would teach her with what kind of person she was dealing.
At least his little act had gone as predicted.
Almost.
He had anticipated Miss Granger's anger and indignation, but he hadn't been prepared for the plainly honest disappointment in her eyes. The girl had always worn her heart in those large hazel pools – so unlike those sophisticated green ones he loved and would never see again…
Nevertheless, to know the caring tenderness her eyes had held for him, as unwelcome and undeserved as it had been, made the shift to their silent accusation even more painful. Eventually, they had rendered him unable to continue his act. He was a weak fool.
Gritting his teeth, Snape lowered his gaze to another inadequate essay. Would it always be a pair of Gryffindor eyes that tore at his soul?
"Time is up. You may bottle your potions now and place them on the desk before leaving."
Professor Snape's announcement caused Hermione to cast a concerned glance at Neville's potion: it was flashy red instead of the required yellow color. The liquid boiled merrily in its cauldron. He hadn't even dared to ask her for help. And the unhappy looks on Ron's and Harry's faces told her that they had not managed to brew the solution correctly either.
"We'll see you in Transfiguration, 'Mione," Harry called from the door, giving her a compassionate look.
Well aware that she had worked unusual slowly today, she nodded silently before turning to her own cauldron and filling a flask with the golden liquid she had managed to create. She sighed as she cast a silent Evanesco. Well, at least it was some shade of yellow.
Hermione stepped up in front of Professor Snape's desk with her flask in her hand.
However, the Potions master did not acknowledge her presence; his gaze lingered on Crabbe and Goyle, who were the last students to occupy the room obviously in an attempt to learn if their Head of House had any further punishment in store for her.
Intuitively, Hermione used those precious unobserved seconds to dare a closer look at Professor Snape while she placed her flask next to the others' samples on the desk. The thick black curtains of his hair obscured his profile from her view, but unconcealed tension radiated from his whole posture, even his hands were curled around the backrest of his chair.
It was an unusual gesture for him. Hermione's mind was torn between wondering why he would possibly search support from his chair and also admiring his long, slender fingers – those fingers that had covered her hand so gently.
Don't be daft, Granger, not your hand – Lily's hand.
"Mr. Crabbe, Mr. Goyle, I would advise you to leave now." Hermione winced. For the second time this day the sudden sound of his voice had caught her by surprise.
"Professor McGonagall will be most pleased to deduct a certain amount of Slytherin house points if you arrive late for her lesson," Professor Snape snapped, grasping for the potion samples and giving Hermione one last cold look before he left for his office.
Bugger. Transfiguration.
She had already lost seventy house points and she was late.
Oh, bugger.
Hermione rushed to her workplace, throwing the Potions kit and the books into her bag as several loud plops caught her attention. Next to her stood Neville's still heavily boiling potion, thick red fumes soaring from the cauldron. He had obviously forgotten to Evanesco it in a rush to get out of the room. Well, who would blame him after this disastrous start of term?
Hermione drew her wand from her pocket, already pointing it at the cauldron and preparing herself to stash the boiling mess away as she heard Professor Snape call her name. She sighed. What could he possibly want now?
But as she turned her head to meet his gaze, her heart stopped.
Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
He was running her way with his wand drawn, an alarming expression on his face, eyes fixed on the cauldron in front of her.
Neville's cauldron.
No.
The instant her mind made the connection, her eyes were mesmerized by the now threateningly boiling liquid. Unknown panic glued her to the spot, rendering her body unable to follow her mind's terrified screams to move out of the danger zone.
From somewhere far away Hermione heard Professor Snape casting a shield charm and felt the strong pull of an arm around her waist in the moment Neville's cauldron exploded.
And then everything went dark.
A pair of fingers was pressed against her throat.
Somebody said her name, somebody next to her, who sounded … concerned.
"Miss Granger?"
She knew that voice.
Professor Snape.
Oh.
Her memory of the last minutes returning, Hermione blinked several times in an attempt to open her eyes. Wincing at the sudden light, she closed them momentarily. Her head was throbbing slightly.
"Miss Granger, do you hear me?"
She nodded, slowly opening her eyes again. As her vision cleared, she found herself lying on the floor with her head propped up on something soft. Professor Snape knelt on one knee at her side, observing her intently. The usual worry line between his brows seemed to be carved even more deeply into his face, and there was a large smudge of grime covering his left cheek.
"How do you feel?"
Embarrassed, she thought ruefully, managing a shy thankful smile.
"A bit shaken, I fear, but unharmed." Her voice sounded surprisingly hoarse, as if it hadn't been used for a long time.
"How long have I been out?" Hermione asked as she tried to sit up, bringing herself face to face with Professor Snape.
"Mere seconds," he said, sounding infuriatingly detached. His face once more held an unfathomable expression, but as Hermione searched his gaze, the cold indifference had left the dark depths, baring a storm of nameless emotion to her eyes. For several heartbeats she was lost, drowning in a warm black surge.
In an abrupt movement, Professor Snape rose from the floor, holding his right hand out to her.
"Do you think you can manage to get up, Miss Granger?"
Hermione found herself nodding again, taking his offered palm. Long slender fingers came to rest on the back of her hand, pulling her upwards with a gentle force.
"Severus," Professor Dumbledore's voice echoed from the hallway, "the Bloody Baron informed me of an explosion in the dungeons. What has—," he broke off as he stepped into the door, beholding the scene in front of him.
"One of the dunderheads I am forced to teach has managed to leave me a rather explosive device, Albus." Professor Snape sneered without turning to the Headmaster; his eyes fixed on Hermione as she struggled to stand, not releasing her hand until she leaned against the next worktable. Her knees felt still rather wobbly.
"Is Miss Granger—"
"I am fine, Headmaster," Hermione assured quickly, searching the blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore, while the Potions master moved to bend over the remains of Neville's cauldron.
"Thanks to Professor Snape," she added gratefully. "He—"
But she never got to explain how Professor Snape saved her. A sweet and tiny cough from behind Professor Dumbledore interrupted her.
"Hem, hem."
"Dolores. What can we do for you on this wonderful morning?" the Headmaster asked cheerfully as he turned around to greet the toad-like face of Professor Umbridge.
"I heard from Mr. Filch there was an incident in the Potions classroom," she announced in the slow sweet tone Hermione had come to loathe. "I was just wondering if Professor Snape needed any help with his students."
For the second time today, Hermione waited for a blow that never came. Professor Snape straightened up slowly before answering Umbridge in a disturbingly calm voice.
"Professor Umbridge, I assure you regretfully, after fourteen years of teaching the art of potion making to incapable students, I know how to deal with an exploding cauldron quite well."
"Oh, yes, I see." Umbridge gave the explosion-induced chaos in the classroom a rather indignant sniff.
"Dolores, now that it is ensured that my Potions master is perfectly able to handle this little affair, why don't we discuss Cornelius' last letter in my office," Professor Dumbledore offered, already shuffling her into the hallway.
Her response to the Headmaster's proposal was already lost to Hermione as mere moments later the door of the classroom snapped shut.
"Evil old hag," Hermione muttered under her breath as she straightened her school robes.
"Pardon, Miss Granger?"
Oh hell.
Seeing the knowing smirk curling on the corners of his mouth, she flushed furiously. He had bloody well heard her.
"Umm … nothing, sir."
"Very well then," he said nonchalantly before giving her a serious look.
"Miss Granger, I must ask you not to speak to anyone about this incident."
"But why—"
He held up a hand, his face hard as he spoke.
"Miss Granger, the Dark Lord cannot learn one way or another what has occurred here today. Do you understand?"
Hermione blanched. How could she have forgotten? He was a Death Eater. He was not supposed to protect her – Harry Potter's friend, a… Sweet Merlin.
"Yes, sir."
"Good. I suggest you go to see Madame Pomfrey now, Miss Granger. Despite your assurances of feeling well, I would like to avoid any complaints from your Head of House for not treating you with the necessary caution when I inform her about the reason for your absence today."
"Yes, sir."
She was clearly dismissed. Professor Snape was right; she should pay the matron a visit. Her legs still felt a bit unsteady. She felt unsteady.
While absently walking for the door, Hermione dared a brief glance back over her shoulder. Professor Snape was already bent over the remains of Neville's cauldron again, clearly trying to analyze what had caused the liquid to erupt in the end.
Seeing the icy coldness in his eyes today had hurt, like watching a hope die…
But then, for a brief moment, she had found him.
The man who loved Lily.
The man whom she had given a promise.
Hermione stopped in the door frame, placing a hand on the ancient wood before glancing back again. Her gaze lingered on the Potions master. If somebody would have told her months ago that this man evidently hid his heart—like the Dark Mark he was bearing—beneath the multiple layers of his frock coat, she would not have believed it. But she knew it better now.
"Professor Snape?"
His head snapped up, black eyes searching her gaze.
"Miss Granger?"
"Thank you," she said softly and vanished into the hallway, hiding the ridiculous blush that colored her cheeks.
Snape flung himself into the next armchair, closing his eyes as he leaned his head against the backrest.
Granger.
The girl had been white as a sheet as she had left for the Hospital Wing.
Foolish, foolish Gryffindor.
Why had she tried to vanish Longbottom's explosive leftovers herself instead of calling him? He couldn't even bring himself to blame her for the decision after today's events.
They were all fortunate that the cauldron had exploded at the beginning of his free period and not in an already half-filled classroom. And if he was honest with himself, the incident was as much his fault as Longbottom's. The boy wouldn't have made such disastrous mistakes without being robbed from Miss Granger's helping hand and having himself made a fool in front of his classmates.
Snape slumped forward, burying his head in his hands.
He had been the real fool today. He should have known better than to allow his anger to engage in this shortsighted act. And then he had been blind in his disgust at his own weakness not to go through with it. His guard had slipped. It was his fault. He should have seen the cauldron. He shouldn't have left his classroom without a second glance.
If Miss Granger or any other student had been hurt in his classroom …
If she had… He swallowed.
Alone, my fault.
Like Lily.
But what had Miss Granger done? This foolish girl with her annoyingly soulful eyes had thanked him.
Simply thanked him. It was honest, lovely and completely unnerving, causing his miserable, undeserving heart to swell in his chest.
Merlin help him. He needed to control his emotions better, otherwise the Dark Lord would pull him apart like warm bread.
Author's note: Once again, my infinite thanks belong to Losille 2000, my lovely beta.