Disclaimer: I don't own it, I really wish I did.

A/N: Hopefully, this chapter will have some humor in it, but I never know how it will turn out until I actually write it. As of now, I have no clue what I'm going to write, I just hope it turns out decently.

Severus Snape paced the floor in his shabby room in the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. Ms. Granger, perfect, unendingly perky, brains-of-the-Golden-Trio Ms. Granger with bruises marring the skin of her side, Ms. Granger in either an abusive relationship or with abusive parents? It couldn't be. People who were abused had a certain personality. They didn't trust and they were quiet, and often picked upon. She was almost the exact opposite. She trusted Potter and Weasley with her life, constantly had something to say, whether in class or in everyday life, and…well she was often picked upon, however, she had friends who cared about her that stood up for her. She couldn't be an abused child. If that's what he really thought, however, then why on Earth had he given her the book of self-defense spells.

He knew why: he recognized the pained look in her eyes. As much as he tried to deny it, he saw the truth, that she was abused, that no matter how different she was from the accepted attitude of an abused child, she was.

She's not a child anymore. I doubt if she has been for a long time. It only takes one bad beating to take the shine of innocence off someone; it only takes living one sleepless night in fear to stop pretending that people are inherently good. Judging by the way that she's kept quiet about them, this isn't the first time it's happened.

He rubbed his temples in frustration. Why did he care? He should simply inform Minerva that one of her darling little lionesses was having a few problems, yet he felt traitorous with just the thought of doing so. Odd, I've never felt a moment of guilt playing the Dark Lord for a fool when I spy, yet even the thought of letting what she's obviously kept as a secret slip makes me feel lower than, well, a snake. Being around so many damned Gryffindors for so long must be making me go soft.

Hermione felt a bit better after applying the bruise potion, however, her nerves were on edge. Someone obviously knew about it, but who? Dumbledore was a possibility, but somehow this didn't strike her as a way he would solve the problem. There was no possibility that it was either Ron or Harry. For one, they would have tried to go to her house and have a "talk" with her father, and she sincerely doubted either of them had these potions ready to hand out whenever it was necessary. There was only one person who did have potions constantly, and that was Professor Snape and she knew for a fact that the smarmy git would never want to help her. He made it quite clear that he loathed her with a passion. There was nothing that would make him want to help her.

Why did he care? Why was he still awake, pacing the floor wondering what to do? He shouldn't care. She was an annoying know-it-all friend of Harry bloody Potter and a Gryffindor; that should be enough to make it not his problem, and yet.

And yet he couldn't stop thinking about it.

"You bloody fool" he whispered to himself, "she's nothing like you were when you were her age. She's fire and light while you were, and are, darkness and despair. She won't choose the same path you did. She won't suffer as you do for the sins you've still yet to atone for."

Maybe this is part of your atonement. You're certainly suffering enough. Why not tell her? Let her know that it was you who left the potions and book. She's probably frantic, thinking someone knows about it, someone who'd tell everyone else. Making up his mind, he strode purposefully out of his room to hers.

He found her sitting in a chair, asleep. She looked so small and helpless. There were stains on her cheeks, tiny rivulets of dried tears. He couldn't help but notice the insane amount of weight she'd lost this summer. It must have been nearly twenty pounds off of a girl that wasn't much to begin with. He'd noticed when she was looking at her bruises that he could count every one of her ribs easily, too easily. She couldn't be comfortable in that old spindly chair. Sighing, he picked her up to move her to the bed, holding her gingerly so he wouldn't hurt her. Once again, it shook him to see how light she was. It took no effort to move her, none at all. He pulled her blankets back with a flick of his wrist and set her down in it. And Minerva complains that I have no compassion. Her face looked pained and he noted wryly that she'd not taken that dreamless sleep potion. So it has been going on for a while. If this were just a one-time thing, she would have taken it just to stop the pain of the dreams, but someone with more…experience with this sort of thing realizes numbing it doesn't help, and often only makes it worse.

He strode out of her room, hating himself a little more when he paused in the doorway to stop and glance back at her.

A/N So, I lied. No humor. It will definitely be in the next chapter though.

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