Quick AN: Just wanted to say thank you to all who have read and continue to check in on this story. I've been very busy lately and, unfortunately, will probably continue to be, but when I'm not posting, I am working on this project if only in my head. I'm also doing careful work to keep the storyline mostly intact for now, even getting into details on dates and times, so if I do make an error, my apologies, and feel free to correct me in the comments. I'm not shy of critique! Again, thank you for reading. :)

Chapter 8: Debitum

Snape did not return in an hour or even two, and the thought of him doing so was quite driven from her mind when Dumbledore flooed into Grimmauld's kitchen later that evening.

"Harry Potter has been cited for Underage Magic for casting the Patronus Charm."

His announcement settled for a moment over the diners, including Hermione, the Weasleys, and Tonks, gathered around the table. Then the silence broke and everyone was talking at once.

"Underage—oh, Harry," Mrs. Weasley gasped, a hand over her mouth.

"A citation!?" Tonks exclaimed. "Bit extreme, isn't it? Oh, sorry Ginny." The younger girl rubbed her shoulder where Tonks had just thwacked it.

"The Patronus Charm?" Fred asked, eyebrows raised.

"We don't even know the Patronus Charm." George nudged his twin.

"But he wouldn't cast the Patronus unless he needed to," Hermione said.

"And indeed he did," Dumbledore said gravely. But there was something else beneath his tone, something that gave Hermione the same compressed feeling that apparition did. "Two dementors were in Little Whinging."

With this pronouncement came chaos. The noise volume increased, questions flew over each other, and all of Tonks's cutlery was on the floor by the time Dumbledore raised up one pale hand to stop them.

"I need everyone not to panic."

"But Albus, wasn't anyone with him?" Mr. Weasley asked.

Hermione took an involuntary half step backwards as Dumbledore's eyes, hard as two chunks of ice, slid over her and fixed on Arthur.

"No," he said shortly. "Mundungus claims to have been detained."

Hermione's mouth dropped open with a soft gasp, but no one noticed, as Dumbledore continued.

"Time is of the essence. Tonks, I need you to keep a second eye. Arabella is on guard now. Arthur, I need you to write to Harry."

And so he filed out instructions until she, Ron, and Ginny were left sitting at the table.

"And you three," he said, turning his pale blue eyes upon them. "Have the most vital part of all. I must ask you to prepare yourselves. We may be bringing Harry here sooner than anticipated. You must keep him calm upon his joining us."

Hermione opened her mouth, but Ron beat her to it.

"Calm? Why would we need to do that?" he demanded. Then his neck flushed scarlet. "Sir."

Dumbledore's smile was patient, if somewhat strained. "You are collectively what Harry needs most of all right now." He paused and the three glanced at each other uncertainly. "Normalcy," Dumbledore said. "He needs friends who will stand by him. You understand?"

On her left, Ron nodded, but on her right, Ginny took a hesitating breath.

"Professor, are we… Does this mean we're still not supposed to tell him anything?"

Hermione thought that only years of knowing Ginny allowed her to hear the skepticism in the girl's tone. She sincerely hoped that Dumbledore didn't. She looked back at the man to see what his assessment of the redhead would be, but he was looking at Hermione instead. Instinctively, she tried not to think of anything in particular. After a pause, Dumbledore nodded.

"I must ask you—all three of you—" His piercing eyes momentarily left Hermione's. "Not to tell him anything. Do you understand?"

They all nodded. Hermione was the last one to do so.

She was sitting in her bedroom. She had just finished penning a letter to Harry when there was a crash downstairs. She was out of her chair and on her feet, wand drawn, in a moment. Her door opened silently and then she was slipping down the hall and creeping down the steps.

Another crash, like the sound of shattered glass, sounded from the living room. Raised voices followed it, including the sound of a woman's voice. She was pleading.

"Please don't," came the cry from the other side of the door Hermione pressed her ear to. "She—she's not h-here. We d-don't know where—"

"Silence!" snarled a voice, and then a silencing spell was shouted. "You will tell me what I want to know. Let's see if this will encourage you."

Alarm bells rang in her ears and Hermione pushed open the door. The scene that met her on the other side of it stopped her in her tracks. Lucius Malfoy was standing in her living room with his wand hovering inches in front of her mother's nose. Her mother was magically bound to a chair. Tears spilled from her eyes and her mouth twisted rapidly in unheard words, but Hermione could clearly make out the word "run". Beyond, her father lay on the ground, unconscious. She hoped.

"Ah," Lucius said, "So the Mudblood is here after all. Let's see if you can tell me where Potter is hidden!"

With that, he turned his wand on Hermione. The sound of his spell was followed by her own yells.

Hermione woke and immediately pressed her hand against her mouth, even as her mangled shout died in her throat. She lay quite still and tried to breathe slowly, listening for the sound of Ginny's being awakened. Hot tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes and down the sides of her face, curving where her jaw met her ears.

After several moments, she sat up slowly and looked at the other bed. Ginny was curled into a ball and facing the other direction, but her shoulders rose and fell in an even rhythm. Hermione carefully pulled the covers back and slipped out of bed. Tiptoeing to the desk chair, she pulled on her dressing gown and hurried out the door.

Once in the hall, she leaned back against the wall and let out the breath she had been holding in a shuddering exhale. Flashes of her dream came back to her: the crashes of the break-in, Malfoy's voice so sinister and then triumphant, the look of unfiltered fear in her mother's eyes…

"Tea," she whispered to herself. "I just need tea."

She crept down to the basement, remembering at the last second to skip the creaky stair on the ground floor to avoid waking Mrs. Black. Embers smoldered in the grate of the kitchen, and Hermione set about on auto-pilot fixing herself a cup of tea. She had only just sat at the table with it when the kitchen door opened and she gasped by reflex.

Severus Snape stood in the doorway.

Hermione immediately stood up. "Sir. How are you?"

How are you? she asked herself. You don't see him for three days after he's been Summoned and you ask how he is? With anyone else, it would have been a normal question. But with Professor Snape, it was like asking a dragon in an enclosure how it liked its new home.

Snape opened his mouth.

"I'm sorry, sir," she said quickly. "That was foolish of me. And none of my business besides. Do you want a cup of tea?"

She made to walk around the table, but Snape stepped forward, halting her steps at the table's edge.

"Stop," he commanded, and her body—trained for four years to freeze when Snape used that tone—complied.

Snape loomed over her, dominating her field of vision with his statuesque form. His mouth was thin and firm, eyes probing into her own. She blinked up at him and became distinctly aware how much taller than her he was. Her head, at best, came up to the middle of his chest.

"What happened?" he asked.

Standing this close to him, she could almost feel the words vibrating inside his rib cage.

"How—?" she began, then shook her head. He wouldn't tell me anyway.

She let her feet reluctantly guide her back to her seat. Only once she was sitting did Snape approach the chair opposite her and fall with a graceful billowing of fabric into it. Hermione blew on her tea and took a small sip to wet her tongue.

"I had a dream."

Sat there in the dim light of the fire which cast dancing shadows across her hands and teacup, the nightmare seemed at once more tangible than ever and simply and laughably what it was: a dream. She spoke quietly, addressing the table's whorled wooden surface. By the time she finished, the remains of her tea were cold in the bottom of her cup, and warm tear tracks lined her face. Mortified, she raised a hasty hand to wipe away evidence of her silliness.

There was a scraping sound, and the darkness that had hovered at the edge of her vision that was Severus Snape departed.

Great, she thought. I've run him off with my emotions. Now I'm not only a sneak, but also a weak little child. Her stomach sank. Will he stop letting me work with him?

She raised her head to implore him to come back, but he was heading for the counter, not the door. She watched as he fussed with metal and china for a few minutes, and then he returned to the table, two mugs in his hands. He set one down in front of her with a heavy thunk. It was hot chocolate.

"Better for the nerves than tea," he said. Then he twitched his fingers, summoning a small bottle from the cabinet, from which a glug of golden liquid poured into his own drink. At her raised eyebrow, he said, "Better for both kinds of nerves."

The bottle returned to its shelf, leaving her drink untouched.

Silence fell over them as they took sips. The warmth of the drink filled Hermione with an almost overwhelming sense of calm and comfort. Halfway through her mug, she looked up at the man sat opposite her. His head was bowed, brow slightly furrowed in a frown. His fingers were laced over his own nearly empty mug. A narrow cut lined the side of his index finger, which tapped unevenly against the rim. It reminded her of the nips from Hedwig covering her fingers, and she folded her fingers up inside of her sleeves.

He'd said nothing during her story, but then he'd…comforted her? Is that what the hot chocolate was? An apology, an expression of sympathy, an emotionlessly prescribed medicine?

No, she decided, as sure of him now as she was when he appeared at her side in the Muggle park. He wasn't emotionless, though she still didn't quite understand his motivations. Was he secretly kind but no one ever got close enough to find out? Was he doing his duty as a teacher and, somewhat, guardian? Was he acting on Dumbledore's orders?

"Dumbledore was here earlier," she burst out. Snape raised his head. "He told us Harry was attacked by dementors." Snape said nothing. Hermione's mouth dropped open. "You knew?"

He nodded shortly, then untwined his hand from his mug and rotated his wrist so that his left forearm was lying on the table between them.

"Vol—" His fingers flexed and she stopped herself. "He sent them?"

Snape nodded again.

"He was…giddy," he said, and something in his voice sounded hollow, as if he were telling a story about something that happened to someone else, somewhere else and long ago. "One of his spies in the ministry…he didn't say who…overheard of a plot. Members of his used…persuasive methods…to make it worse by sending multiple. He had gathered us to celebrate."

"That's insane!" Hermione said, feeling her stomach bubble hotly with indignation. "Setting dementors on a teenager. What did he expect?"

Snape's dark eyes darted up at her. She didn't even need the raised eyebrow to realize how ridiculous her knee-jerk question was. It was obvious: Voldemort expected Harry to die—well, worse than die. And he wanted to throw a party about it.

An almost overwhelming heaviness pressed upon her, quickly overtaking her instinct to demand justice and rationality. She frowned at her hands. Because, she knew, she didn't live in a world of justice and rationality. She lived in a brilliant and beautiful world that had been distorted by a madman decades before she had been born. And that madman wanted to kill her best friend not just now, not just since first year, but since he was only a baby. None of it was just and none of it was rational.

"Sir, why—"

"I think you should go visit your parents."

He didn't hesitate like Harry asking her to proof his paper, and he didn't plow into the sentence like Ron would have done, incautious and acting on instinct. He said it firmly, as if he's already given it some thought, maybe even as if he was demanding it. Hermione gaped st him.

"What? How can I? Harry is about to arrive and Dumbledore said—"

"The mission to collect Potter is the perfect distraction," Snape said simply, shrugging his shoulders with the most minute movement. "While everyone is finalizing plans and setting things up and…being…excitable…" He waggled his fingers as if to shake the detestable word away like an unwelcome insect. "You can go then."

"But how will I go? I can't apparate yet and everyone else is going on the mission."

"I am not going on the mission. I will take you. If you want," he added as an afterthought.

He stood abruptly, plucking their mugs from the table and bringing them to the sink where he set about washing them by hand. Hermione sat at the table, blinking at the spot where Snape had sat. Across the room, his shoulders were hunched high by his ears, his elbows bent stiffly. She rose and approached the counter beside him with careful steps. He didn't look around at her, even when she pressed one hip against the counter and cocked her head at him.

"Why are you being so nice to me?"

There was no accusation in her tone. Only curiosity and a mild—so mild she hoped it was hidden, because she didn't think he'd appreciate it—amusement. He continued scrubbing the mug in his hands.

"Would you like me to be rude, Miss Granger?" he asked dryly.

"Sometimes, yes," she said, and then jumped. She'd meant to say what she honestly thought. She just didn't realize that was it. "I'm sorry. I don't mean—"

"You don't mean you want me to act like the evil gargoyle who guards the dungeons?" He scrubbed harder at the mug.

"No, I just meant—Oh, why is this so impossible?!"

She rubbed her hands over her face in exasperation. If it were Harry or Ron she was talking to, she would have smacked him upside the head or rolled her eyes or huffed, "Boys," and walked off. But she knew them and they knew her. You could do that kind of thing to your friend. You couldn't do that to your professor, though, even if he was acting a bit…unexpected.

"I'm just…not used to it," she said. "You're never this kind to me at school. You never call on me, and you look for any excuse to take points that you can. You hate my friends." Snape's lips pursed. Hermione continued quickly. "Look, do and say whatever you like. Forget I said anything."

"Surely—"

Hermione stopped in her trek back to the table and slowly turned around. His voice was low, but Hermione couldn't identify anything else for certain in its tone.

"—you can figure out why this would be so."

Once more she made contact with the counter and once more she examined his profile. His eyes stayed resolutely on the mug, but when she didn't say anything, his mouth opened.

"The addition of any one person in this room at the present moment would revert my behavior to that with which you are most familiar."

Well that's annoying, she thought. He can only be nice alone?

And then she could have kicked herself. Because he as good as told her without telling her that this was so, must always be so, because of who he was.

He wore Muggle clothes in a park…to meet her. Instead of mocking her ignorance, he carefully performed magic…for her. He had a whole conversation about Mundungus Fletcher where he as good as said the same things about himself…with her. And what was special about her?

She said yes.

She trusted him and said yes to his and Dumbledore's plan. She'd accounted for some change in her activities by doing so, but she hadn't thought she'd be treated any differently. Not quite, but more like…an equal.

"Didn't you realize being a spy means having access to certain information and discourse with one's handler?" he asked. He finally set aside the first mug and grabbed the second.

She blushed, now feeling supremely stupid. She took the mug and began drying it with a towel.

"One day will there be things you don't tell me?"

"There are already things I don't tell you, foolish girl," he said. He finished the second mug and shut the water off with a squealing of metal. "Do you think Dumbledore tells me the Order's every move? Do you think the Dark Lord tells me his every scheme?"

"It would be a lot simpler if they did," she mumbled, drying the second mug. When she was done, she looked up to find him staring at her. "What?"

He shook his head, but his mouth curved in a sardonic smile. "You have a lot to learn."

"Good thing I've got an excellent teacher, then, isn't it, sir?"

She smiled back broadly and presented him with the towel to dry his hands. His eyebrows rose slightly, but he said nothing.

No one had ever expressed gratitude for his teaching…unless they were aiming to do a potions apprenticeship, which it looked like he'd all but accidentally signed her up for. And no one had ever placed their trust so blindly and willingly in him, certainly not to the extent of crying in front of him without being a first year member of his own House. And she certainly had not been demonstrating any of the tact of his House, but perhaps that was because she was unsteady from her dream.

And so it was with real–confusing but real–regret that he penned his missive to her and folded it into a neat square before magically sealing it and sending it whizzing under her door only a few hours later.

Severus stepped onto the stair of number twelve and, as a pinky-orange glow suffused the clouds above, he disappeared with a snap.

Hermione, like the Weasleys and most of the Order, was at Grimmauld Place when Harry Potter arrived, and only her relief at having everyone back in one piece could shake the annoyance she'd felt since shortly after waking up. But that annoyance picked at the back of her mind like picking at a scab every time she caught Harry's moody glance or heard another word spoken in an aloof or sarcastic tone. In what seemed like no time, Harry was yelling, and she thought about all the research she'd thrown herself into that morning for his case and half-wished she hadn't done it just out of spite.

"Today went about as well as expected," Ron muttered to her as they climbed the stairs that night. He placed his hand on her arm as she tripped on a step. An electric jolt ran up to her shoulder. "What do you reckon the weapon is?"

Hermione blinked, trying to focus on something that wasn't the warmth on her forearm.

"I've no idea," she whispered, mentally scanning through a catalogue of the little information she'd read on the dark arts. "Whatever it is, I just hope he doesn't get it. Worse than the Killing Curse?" She shuddered.

"Hey, listen…." They came upon the first landing faster than the others, but Ron lowered his voice even more. "Are you sure we've done the right thing?"

Am I sure we've done the right thing by keeping our best friend out of the loop for weeks? Am I sure there's nothing we could have done to prevent Harry from getting attacked by dementors because he went off recklessly and restlessly exploring outside of his house? Am I sure having him furious at us is worth it?

Hermione looked up at Ron warily. "Ron, we gave our word to Dumbledore."

"Right." Ron nodded. "Dumbledore knows what's best. G'night, Mione."

Ron let his hand drop from her arm just in time for Harry and Mrs. Weasley to arrive. As Hermione watched them continue to climb the stairs, a chill settled on her skin. Then she turned to her door, sure that Ginny was waiting just on the other side for information.

Almost a week of cleaning the house and walking on eggshells around Harry managed to occupy Hermione's mind. She didn't think of Snape. Except when Mundungus snuck cauldrons into Grimmauld and she had the strong instinct to turn, as if Snape would be standing at her side, and offer him a knowing smile. And when she and Sirius argued abut Kreacher and she wondered what Snape's thoughts on house elves were. And when, on Wednesday evening, preparations were being made for Harry's trial and she remembered the last time plans were being made for him, and her own plans were dashed.

Miss Granger, his note had read. I find myself unable to keep our appointment. I will explain upon my return.

A small blot of ink marred the space next to the final period, as if he had paused for several moments, considered writing more, and ultimately decided against it. The note was not signed, but there was no question about the author. She had folded it carefully back into a square and tucked it between pages 371 and 372 of Hogwarts, A History, which sat at the bottom of her trunk.

You're being ridiculous, she thought to herself, having just recited the note to herself while she paced the room she shared with Ginny. You have plenty of other things to focus on, other work to get done. Harry needs your help. And you have an OWL year to prepare for, for Merlin's sake!

She sat in her chair and pulled a book and a stack of notes closer to herself. A few measured breaths, and she was diving back into her research on wizarding case law, hoping that she would find some concrete precedent for underage magic in extreme situations. But as she turned each page, she found her eyes glazing over and became aware that she had skimmed through paragraphs but not absorbed a single thing. With a frustrated snort, she turned back and read again.

It was in such a position that Ginny found her fifteen minutes later.

"Hey, Hermione," the girl said breezily as she headed to her bed, toweling her hair dry as she went. She stopped. "Uh…are you okay?"

"Of course I'm okay," Hermione snapped, striking out what she'd just written on her parchment. "Why wouldn't I be?"

The redhead's eyebrows rose. "No need to take that tone," she said cooly. "If it's none of my business, you can say so."

Hermione dropped her quill. The page before her was covered in sentences, some half-written, all of which were struck out. The final strikethrough she'd done managed to tear a hole in the parchment. She leaned back in her seat and looked up. Ginny had turned away completely and was rifling through a dresser.

"Ginny, no," Hermione sat up and sighed, rubbing a hand across her forehead. "Look, I'm sorry. It's just…this trial. I'm doing all this research, but even then I don't think I have the right books. And I…" She swallowed, then confessed, "I miss my parents. And…"

Her heart stopped and she snapped her mouth shut, staring widely at the floor. And…?

Ginny hummed sympathetically as she pulled on a sweater. "I'm sorry, Hermione. Sometimes I forget, being cooped up with them all the time, that one can miss their families. Can't you go see them before we go back to school?"

"I thought…I was going to–" Hermione sighed. "No. No, I don't think that's going to happen."

The two sat silently, not looking at each other for some minutes.

"Has Harry stopped yelling at you yet?" Ginny asked suddenly, and Hermione accepted it for the ice breaker it was. She smiled ruefully.

"Yes."

"Well, that's something." Ginny smirked, and then her face fell into a serious expression. "You know, I find that having a shower clears my head, helps me think better." She waved a hand at the mess that was Hermione's desk. "Might help."

Hermione nodded slowly, setting down her quill and noticing only once she'd done so that she had spots of ink all over her fingers.

"Good idea. Thanks, Ginny."

She took her time in the shower, partly because a great deal of scrubbing was required to remove the ink spots, and partly to give her brain the opportunity to reorganize itself. She emerged from the bathroom with clean fingers and a plan to investigate the Black library, but Ginny poked her head out of the bedroom as she approached.

"Hey. I think this is yours. It arrived on your bed while you were gone and wouldn't stop jumping up and down. Figured it was important."

She held out a square piece of paper and Hermione's heart skipped a beat.

"Thanks," she said, in a slightly higher voice than usual.

Ginny nodded, fixing Hermione with a curious look, but—to her credit—didn't launch into the litany of questions Ron would have. Without opening it, Hermione took the paper from Ginny's hand and continued down the hallway. Only once she was in the safety of the library with the door shut behind her did Hermione remove the wand from her bun and tap the parchment.

Her hair fell down in wet waves around her face, a strand of sopping wet hair sticking to her left cheek. But that wasn't the only thing that set a muscle in Severus's jaw twitching.

The girl had her back pressed against the library door, keeping it firmly shut and eliminating his only exit. She hadn't bothered looking around upon entering. Otherwise, she surely would have jumped at the sight of him sitting in the armchair tucked away in the corner of the room where he had been waiting to feel the quill in his pocket warm, indicating that his message had been read.

As he looked at her now, the quill warmed against his thigh, and his jaw twitched again. Because as her eyes zoomed over the parchment, the corner of her mouth was twitching.

Amused, Miss Granger? he wanted to snarl. After all the work I'm doing?

The girl laughed.

It was a small, single high note of a laugh. She folded the parchment again along the same lines he had created. Before he could say a word, she turned and was gone, the library door shutting with a bit too much force after her.

He sat in his chair, eyes narrowed on the Black family seal embossed on the dark wooden door.

The last week had been hell. Summoned again and again to Voldemort's side, reframing memories of Order meetings so that if—no, when, definitely when—Voldemort invaded his mind, he had some plausible explanation for why he knew nothing about the Order's plans for the trial, knew nothing about Potter's transport to the ministry. And while he had been punished for lacking useful information, it hadn't been as bad as it would have been otherwise, had he not been the one to drop the hint about Fletcher being easily distracted by precious metals.

Yet in all of that, his mind shifted in free moments not to revised lesson plans for the year, nor ways to hide other information the Dark Lord would be keen on. Instead, he'd crafted plans to bring the girl to her family, plans he'd alluded to in his missive.

But now…

Blood roiled in his stomach.

How dare she laugh at me? If she thinks I'm going to help her…

In moments, the door shut a little too loudly a second time, and he was slipping down two flights of stairs. As he burst into the work room, he found Miss Granger mid-pace on the far side of the table. She whirled to face him.

"Sir—!" she began brightly.

"Enough dallying. Sit," he commanded, tossing his chin at her chair and beginning his own languorous pacing.

The remnants of a smile on her face vanished and she seated herself hastily. Her shoulders twitched. He wouldn't be surprised if she were twisting her hands together under the table. He quirked a brow. She stopped twitching.

"Miss Granger, please recite for me the proper method to brew blood replenisher."

She blinked. "I—sorry?"

"Come now," Severus said. "Even without the prompting, you take every opportunity to regurgitate the textbook in my classes. So—" He stopped directly in front of her, and he was satisfied to see that she had to crane her neck to maintain eye contact. "How does one brew the blood-replenishing potion?"

A flicker passed through her eyes—perhaps of confusion—but she opened her mouth.

"First you stew mandrakes for 24 hours…" she began, and completed the instructions almost word for word from the book.

Severus eyed her when she was finished. A small frown appeared between her brows and her eyes fell, as if she were reviewing her answer for mistakes. When she raised her eyes to his again, he turned around, plucked a jar from the shelf, and set in front of her firmly.

"These mandrakes have been stewed for 26 hours. You will follow the directions you have just recited to me precisely, except—" He closed his hand over the lid of the jar as she made to reach for it. "You will use these mandrakes, and you will add one counterclockwise stir for every eight clockwise stirs once the powdered bicorn horn is added. Do you understand these alterations?"

"Why—?"

His fingers tightened once more over the jar and he scowled.

"I—yes, I understand," she said quickly. "But, sir, I thought…your note said—"

With a twitch of his fingers, the note folded in her pocket zoomed out and hovered in the air between them.

"The first lesson to being a spy, Miss Granger…"

He snapped his fingers and the parchment erupted into flames. She gaped as she watched the ink bleed and turn into ash. With a swipe of his hand, the ashes scattered.

"Duty must always win."