Hyaci here. Ugh, so sorry for the long wait- I went through three versions of this chapter, and none of them sounded right. So, I instead went for this amalgam of the three, and it sounds much better.

Chapter 6: Snape and the Broomstick

It was not until she had seen Harry safely to the hospital wing did the repercussions of Hermione's herculean feat catch up with her. Presently, she was doubled over in excruciating pain by Harry's bedside, unwilling to leave her- dare she say- best friend. Unwilling not merely because of her sentimental need to make sure Harry was alright, but also because if she tried to move, she would suffer. As it was, she tried to blink back her tears of pain, but her exhausted body was just in no shape to resist the urge to cry.

So, there she sat, hunched over Harry Potter's bedside, seemingly weeping her heart out. If any bystander had been there to witness the scene, they might have assumed that Hermione was expressing her extreme sadness over the ordeal her friend had undergone, but anyone who really knew Hermione- that is to say, no one- would have known that, although she did indeed feel sorrow and remorse over what had happened to her friend, the tears in her eyes were the direct result of pain and fear over not knowing of the origins of said pain.

She suspected that what had happened had permanently taken a toll on her, but she wasn't sure, and was afraid to confirm her hypothesis. However, none of the teachers shared in this fear, and Professor Flitwick, her head of house, was currently working with Madame Pomfrey to figure out why his star pupil was in such suffering.

After many diagnostic tests, the mediwitch came to a decidedly less grim diagnosis. She strode over purposefully to where Hermione was sitting, and whispered to her, "You just exceeded your limits. An hour or two of rest should make you as good as new."

So Hermione was forced to put her sore and utterly tired self to rest, with the aid of one of Pomfrey's sleeping draughts. She suspected, however, that the potion would not act as an analgesic as well, merely as a barbiturate. In order to mitigate the pain, Hermione resorted to muggle painkillers, namely, morphine. It worked surprisingly well, and shortly after, she fell into a deep and painless sleep.

When she awoke, Hermione found that she was lying in a hospital wing cot, with her eyes closed and somehow brimming with hot, unshed tears that had sprung forth while she was asleep. Now that her pain was gone, she could focus her mind solely on the fact that her friend was in what was probably painful and undeniably terrible suffering. If she was still in the bed she had put herself to sleep on just what was definitely only a few hours previously, than Harry was on a bed close to her own, just out of reach. If she truly wanted- needed- to, she could open her eyes and look straight into his face, see his peaceful expression, and delude herself with hope that clashed with both logic and probability that he would be all right.

Even in her exhausted sleep, she had heard the words, "internal damage" and "coma", and knew that any hope Harry had for a full recovery was thin. Although there were potions and spells to aid in and speed up his recovery, mask any scars, and reduce possible side effects, there wasn't a spell or draught in the entirety of the world that could initialize his condition. Nothing could make him as good as new.

Perhaps Snape should begin the search for a new seeker.

She choked out a bitter laugh. Apparently, the morbidity of the situation failed to affect her sense of humor in the least.

Her eyes still closed, Hermione listened to Harry's soft breathing, felt the warmth of a ray of sunlight shining down on her face, tasted the bitter aftertaste of the sleeping draught that had evidently worn off entirely. She listened for what could have been seconds, minutes, hours, or days. She felt the heat of the sun for an eternity.

She was released later that day, into the school of students that would undoubtedly point at her and whisper when she walked their way. Rounding the corner, a couple of Hufflepuffs proved her hypothesis right, peering at her curiously, their mouths moving without sound, somewhat resembling two oversized goldfish. Hermione looked up and made eye contact, which sent them running fearfully in the other direction. They'd heard the rumors- how she had possibly caused the ruination of their famous and well appreciated idol, Harry Potter.

"Look at her!"

"Is that-"

"Yes, the know-it-all witch who just had to show off and defeat the troll."

"She killed Harry Potter, she did."

"Did she? Last I checked, she just left him for dead at the hospital wing."

"Right you are, that's what she did. In my opinion, we should all just avoid her from here on out. She'll be the death of us like she was to the boy-who-lived."

From class to class, Hermione drifted. Her teachers were nice- they always were, save for Snape. The students however, even those who she'd considered friends before the troll incident (with the exceptions of Marietta and Cho, both of whom remained friends with her,) were curt, and somehow, she got the feeling that they couldn't wait to be out of her presence. Friendship, it seemed, was a fickle thing.

Sometimes, she would notice Slytherins watching her slyly, and whispering obviously hateful things amongst themselves. They'd hated her for taking out their seeker- they were practicing with Malfoy filling the position now, but still held out hope for Harry's recovery, no matter how unlikely. Whatever could be done to spite Hermione- to effectively communicate the despair that they felt at the prospect of heading into the first Quidditch game without a competent seeker- they did it, without a second thought. She would catch some slipping things into her food, hiding dangerous materials in her favorite library books. Hermione avoided both dinner and the library from then on, opting instead to spend time with Harry at the hospital wing.

Sometimes, at the hospital wing, she felt like she was being watched, but nothing ever came of it. Eventually, she grew to the point where she could ignore the feeling entirely, allowing every day to have that elusive normalcy that she preferred over her current situation/

It was on one such day, when she was sitting by Harry's bedside, holding Harry's hand, praying fervently, willing him to just wake up already, that the first sign of hope appeared.

The limp hand that she held began to slowly, but surely grasp her hand.

She sucked in a breath at the tightening of his grip. Surely- this was some kind of false alarm, something cruel to raise her hopes, and then send them crashing down on her in a matter of seconds when Harry would die. But that wasn't it- no, the hand held onto hers tightly, as if it was a lifeline, and he began to stir.

"Harry?" Her voice trembled, husky from underuse. She hadn't really spoken since she'd been ostracized.

As if in response- or perhaps it was merely a spasm- the hand briefly contracted around hers, proving that he was, perhaps, on the road to recovery.

Excitedly, she began to shout out incoherently, hoping that someone would hear her, and if they couldn't interpret her wild noises, would at least be intrigued enough to come survey the situation. She was hopeful, but mostly alarmed, because she didn't know what protocol dictated a person should do should such an event arise.

It worked. Madame Pomfrey came running out of her office, wand in hand. She looked at Hermione, confusedly. Nothing had changed, as far as she could tell.

"He squeezed my hand," Hermione whispered.

The mediwitch's eyes widened, and she quickly cast a few diagnostic spells on the boy who lay comatose on the cot. After confirming Hermione's statement, she nodded, and began to work on him, fervently, perhaps in silent gratitude of what he had done to Voldemort only a few years prior. Certainly, she had never worked this fast- although, Hermione had only seen her work on Cho and herself, and they had never been in the precarious medical situation Harry was currently undergoing. Still, it was a bit of a stretch to imagine that the nurse wasn't at least a little partial to the little wizard on the cot who had saved the entire wizarding world from the most evil villain of all time.

And when Harry finally opened his eyes, they were just as green and as bright as she remembered them. Yes, Hermione knew he would never be as good as new, never be as whole as he once was- after all, he had suffered minor internal injuries to some of his organs, and he had hit his head hard on the wall of a girl's lavatory- but he was definitely going to be okay. Perhaps there were flowers blooming out there somewhere.

It was like the troll incident never happened- very few people ever mentioned it outright (although most would secretly gossip), not even the participants. The effects of it, however, were keenly felt. Harry and Hermione had become much closer afterwards, and even her friendships with Cho and Marietta had been bolstered by a small degree. The four of them could, once in a while, when there was less homework than usual, or if Harry didn't have Quidditch practice- apparently, his injuries didn't affect his performance, as they had healed nearly completely, and the fact that most of the injuries had been internal meant that they would never obstruct his seeking abilities- be seen walking and talking amongst themselves on the school grounds.

Ron was one of the few people who thrived on the altercation with the troll however; he told everyone that would listen that he had been part of it, and took to following the four of them around as to insinuate that he was one of them. Naturally, nearly everybody believed him, while the "Golden Quartet"- as they were now referred to derogatively by a few unsavory teachers- merely viewed him as an unnecessary inconvenience, that was so insignificant they wouldn't even take the time to rebuke him. Besides, he was harmless- too stupid to truly ever be anything more than a pain in the neck. So, he was allowed to tag along with them and leech on their newfound infamy.

Hermione, still acting the part of the perfect friend, was required to enthusiastically support Harry in a Quidditch match against Gryffindor. Frankly, Hermione had as much interest in Quidditch as she had in befriending a troll- she'd rather do his homework for him, or even take his tests- but hid her unenthusiastic response when Harry approached her to talk her into watching the match.

"Sure I will," Hermione had said with a smile plastered onto her face. In reality, she was a bit tense about Quidditch. Ever since Harry had received a Nimbus 2000, all Cho (an avid Quidditch enthusiast, and a budding seeker herself) and he seemed to talk about anymore were various strategies to catch the Snitch. Hermione occasionally lent an ear with polite boredom, but was usually excluded from such conversations.

So, Hermione resolved that she would pretend to like the sport for the sake of inclusion in their conversations. She would spend some of her free time (of which she had more of than any other first year, mainly from finishing her work early) researching about Quidditch trivia. Occasionally, she would learn one or two interesting things, but more than often, she would fall asleep halfway through a book, heavily bored by the subject covered.

Presently, Hermione was heavily wrapped in many layers of scarves and sweaters, in the stand, watching Harry do complex and dangerous stunts in the air that offered little to no advantage in the match against Gryffindor. Lee Jordan was snidely commentating on this.

"Look at Potter showing off- was that supposed to be a wrongski feint? That was hilarious it was!"

A pause, laughter ringing out from the Gryffindor stands.

"He seems to think he can dance on the broom, dear god!"

Hermione narrowed her eyes, and slowly pointed her wand at Jordan, prepared to hex him. She shot a glance over at the teachers' stand to see if anyone was watching her, when she saw it: Snape was looking at Harry intensely, never blinking, his mouth ever moving.

She nudged Cho, and pointed out what Snape was doing. "Look at Professor Snape- see how his moth's moving and his eyes follow Harry everywhere?" Hermione narrowed her eyes dangerously. "I bet he's jinxing him"

"It doesn't make sense; why would he sabotage his own team?" Cho seemed utterly baffled.

"I don't know," Hermione murmured, concern for her first friend at Hogwarts flashing in her mind and taking control of her impulses. A quick calculation proved that the impulsive actions she would soon indulge in would only have positive effects on her life. If she left Harry to die, she would lose her best friend, and her roadmap to more friends. And, after the troll incident, the entire school was still suspicious of her- she'd be framed for his death, and lose any other friends she currently had. She began to make her way over to the other stand.

"I think- Hermione, wait, what are you doing?" Cho hissed, alarmed.

"Going to help my friend."

Cho, hesitated, and then nodded. "Should I come with you?"

"Your decision," Hermione shrugged.

The two girls quickly made their way up and down the stands, until they were standing just below the professors. Hermione quickly did a leg count, and pointed her wand at a pair of black leggings, and a muttered incantation later, they were on fire. Immediately, all eyes were on Snape, as he thrashed around, accidentally stomping some teachers on the foot. Quirrell, the unlucky man, heard an audible crack as Snape accidentally massacred his toe, and felt himself tear up.

A feeling of great satisfaction filled Hermione. She didn't know that saving lives could feel this good.

Hermione and Cho made it back to their seats just in time to see Harry cough out the golden snitch.

"It was Snape," Cho declared furiously, sitting in the warm comfort of Hagrid's hut and enjoying a dainty cup of tea. Hermione and Harry were stirring their mugs of hot chocolate and clocking Hagrid's response. Harry's cocoa was much thinner than her own- he had suffered from a nearly perforated stomach, and although it had been reconstructed, it would always be a little sensitive. "Hermione saw him just muttering and staring at Harry like a creep."

"Rubbish," Hagrid said, tending to the fire with a red hot poker, his face obscured by smoke. "Why would he do somethin' like that to his own student? In his house no less."

"I have no idea," Hermione admitting, before taking a sip of her drink, and grimacing as her tongue scalded slightly. "I just saw him- looking at Harry and muttering to himself."

The four of them sat in silence for a bit, stewing over the information that had just been divulged, the three children suspicious, and Hagrid in what seemed to be denial of Snape's wicked intentions. Hermione thought that Snape was a tad bit suspicious, but didn't feel that a simple jinx was enough to incriminate the professor- perhaps he really had just been muttering to himself. But she shook the thought immediately- hadn't Harry's flying drastically improved once Snape was sufficiently distracted? There was something about him- his greasy hair, his sullen attitude, his new shady limp, his billowy black cloak.

Wait… billowy black cloak? That brought up a few memories- tight enclosed space, pressed up against the wall, hiding- yes, a billowy black cloak, like liquid ebony, flowing in the air behind a figure disappearing past an archway into another part of the school… Snape, it had to have been him- but why hadn't he been in the dungeons when all the other teachers were there at the time? Hermione's eyes narrowed, as she tucked away this tidbit of information for future use. Perhaps it was worth looking into.

A/N: What did you think of this one? Any idea where I could go from here?

Kay, now that you've read it, please review. Reviews give my ideas and inspiration, as well as helping me improve my underdeveloped writing skills. Love you all, and will try to respond to every review. I respond via PM, so check your inbox.

~Hyaci