AN: Happy Christmas! Thank you, patient readers, for waiting for this next chapter. Hope you enjoy. :)

Chapter 11: Exsurgamus

"Absolutely ridiculous," Hermione grumbled, turning the final page of Defensive Magical Theory for the third time.

She was sat in her favorite spot in the library for doing work undisturbed, as the bookshelves enclosing the nook were stacked high with magical theory texts. Students didn't often have any interest in the subject, much to her disappointment, but it did provide a private study spot. The irony of cozying up among magical theory books while detesting the first one ever assigned in class was not lost on her.

The book was utter rubbish. Nowhere within its two-hundred and thirty-eight pages did it advise applying defensive magic. Further, and much to her annoyance as an avid footnote-follower, nowhere did Slinkhard cite sources. The nearest he got was making reference to political campaigning slogans over the last century or so which, Hermione noted, were all proclaimed after the defeat of a dark wizard upon entrance into a "new peaceful era." So that's it. We'll all stick our heads in the sand and pretend nothing's wrong. A more perfect work of propaganda could not have been written.

Adding to her annoyance was the memory of the fifth years' classes with Umbridge. Hermione might have taken more offense at losing points for Gryffindor had the woman not added to the kindling by continually provoking Harry. Of course Hermione believed Harry, but he never had been the most prudent person. That, plus Umbridge's appointment as High Inquisitor that very morning set Hermione's stomach writhing like a pile of snakes. It's only going to get worse from here, a voice in the back of her head said grimly.

"What is ridiculous, Miss Granger?" Hermione jumped. Professor Snape stood at the entrance to her alcove, a book clutched in his hand.

"Professor Snape!" She scrambled to her feet, clasping her hands behind her back. "I'm sorry, sir, I didn't see you there."

She lowered her eyes. Internally, she was still a bit put out about the spiky letter A he had scrawled on her potions assignment. She'd spent four hours working on it in the library, yet somehow it was only Acceptable? Squashing down her irritation, she forced her face to smooth before she looked up again.

Snape inclined his head and his eyebrow twitched upward.

"I was reading," Hermione said, mind flying to the first possible thing she could say, and so doing, she snatched her book off of the table and showed it to him.

"In a library. What a surprise," he drawled, giving the cover the briefest of glances. His mouth twisted wryly, and for a moment she thought his gaze could burn a hole through the book's pages. "Ah. I understand your frustration."

Hermione blinked. Well, that was part of the reason… What is rule four? she wondered. Hide a lie in a truth?

"Sir," she said, struck by a sudden idea. "Why didn't you apply for the Defense position? I'd much rather have…"

But she trailed off. Would she rather Professor Snape taught the class? After all, Defense was, she was sorry to admit, her most difficult subject. It was the only class for which she had not achieved top marks on an exam. Though it stung a little less as time passed, she still recalled the episode of the boggart in third year with shame.

"And who says I didn't apply?" His tone was sharp, and Snape seemed to fill the entirety of the space with his presence.

"I–you're telling me you did apply and Dumbledore still chose that–" Hag, she wanted to say, but she stopped herself in time. "Chose…her?"

Snape stared at her, and she thought he might scold her, for he must somehow know what she'd been thinking. But then he muttered something under his breath, and she saw a hazy flicker pass over the gap in the shelves before he approached the corner and sat in the chair opposite her.

The chairs were squished so closely together that as she sat, she crossed her legs and tucked them to the side to give him enough room. Halfway through a major study session, she often used the second chair as a footrest. Sure enough, his knees occupied the space she had just vacated and still almost touched hers. Snape's eyes swept over the books piled on her table. Beneath Umbridge's text were half a dozen defense books, all filled with practical information. Hermione bit her lip, wondering whether he approved of any of her selections.

"Dumbledore has his reasons," Snape said quietly.

Immediately, an image of the back of Harry's hand, raw and scratched with I must not tell lies clearly printed upon it, entered her mind. What possible reason could he have to hire that woman? Hermione thought fiercely. Snape's eyes flashed to her and she leaned forward.

"How are we supposed to learn anything?" she whispered. "With a book and teacher like that, it's practically imposs–" Her mouth dropped open and her eyes latched onto the glint that flashed through his eyes. She leaned further in her chair and continued, the excitement of guessing correctly bubbling in her stomach. "That's it, isn't it? We're not supposed to be learning anything. But, sir, the war–"

"Does not exist, as far as the Ministry is concerned," he interrupted calmly. Her eyebrows rose in alarm.

"But that's crazy!" He tilted his head at her and she struggled to control her voice even as panic sent her heart racing. "Professor, we can't just be sitting ducks waiting around to get attacked. We have to learn. We have to be prepared."

As if he could proceed down the tracks ahead of her train of thought, a note of warning entered his voice. "Miss Granger…"

But her mouth was already spreading wide in a grin. "Sir–!"

Snape raised a hand to pause her. "I know what you're about to ask me–"

"But...?" Hermione said, heart starting to sink but still pounding with determination.

Snape leaned forward. "Miss Granger, think clearly…"

Her eyes darted between his dark eyes glittering in the angular frame of his face. His baritone voice, lowered more than usual, rumbled in the foot of space between them. She wiped her sweaty palms on her robes.

"Where in this plan of yours does the fact that I'd be sabotaging the Ministry, and thereby the Order's and Dumbledore's plans fit in? I can't very well start handing out free lessons to students as if they're chocolate frogs."

"You don't have to hand them out to students. Just teach me," she said desperately.

"Ah…" A smirk pulled at his lips. She'd never seen him make this expression so close before. His lips parted slightly and a tooth glinted at her behind the firm flesh. Like a wolf reminding a fox what kind of creature he is. She fixed her eyes back to his. "Asking for preferential treatment, Miss Granger? I wondered how long it might take."

She crossed her arms and huffed. "This isn't about me trying to do well in classes, sir. This is about, well, surviving…" Her speech began to falter as the gravity of the situation–an entire school full of unprepared children–hit her. She swallowed thickly, then murmured, "One student has already died because of him. I can't just be a student–even a good student–" She thought she heard him snort. She looked up at him. "Books aren't enough."

Snape fixed her with an appraising look, dark eyes scanning her face as if to assess her sincerity. She was just about to beg when he leaned back into his chair with a sigh.

"Calm yourself, girl," he said quietly, and she released the breath she was holding. "I should have known it would only take something as serious as a great wizarding war to get you to relinquish your hold on books."

He gave her something like a wry smile and she felt her lips part in surprise, fully taken in by the small dimple in his right cheek.

"I will teach you. But–" he stalled her as she straightened up eagerly in her chair. His low voice returned. "I will not go easy on you. I will ask the most you have ever been asked of, and still I will demand more. You will meet my demands, or you will forfeit the classes with no second chances. Do you understand and agree to these terms?"

By the end of his offer, his eyes seemed to positively glow in their secluded corner. Hermione did not doubt for a moment that he meant what he said. Snape doesn't suffer fools, an amused voice said in the back of her head, but she swatted it away. And yet there was something there in the depths of his gaze, almost as if it wasn't just an offer but a challenge he had issued.

I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even put a stopper in death.

His words arose in her memory. The expression he bore all those years ago she beheld in front of her at that very moment. He had called out to anyone of cleverness or ambition, offering all their desires on a silver platter…if only one would reach out and take it.

She reviewed his terms, then held out her hand. "Yes. Yes, I do."

He eyed her offered hand, then slowly, as if giving her time to back out, he reached out a graceful hand and took hers. His fingers enveloped her palm and she felt her pulse thud in her wrist. She was just about to let go when his fingers tightened and pulled her hand closer to him. Unbalanced, her legs uncrossed and her feet stumbled, trying to brace herself. Her knees knocked into his, steady and bracing against her own. Warmth spread up the sides of her thighs. She stared, eyes wide, into his face, now mere inches away. A jolt spasmed across his jaw.

"Meet me in my office." His words ghosted over her face and only the movement of his lips assured her that she wasn't imagining it. "Tomorrow evening. Seven o'clock."
She nodded, throat too dry to say anything. He sat only for another second, before he stood quickly and, stepping around her, departed the nook, the hem of his robes whipping around the edge of the bookshelf. She leaned back and let out a breath, thankful she was already sitting. It had been years, and she had been twenty feet off the ground on a broom, the last time her knees had felt so weak.

"Are you telling me that after the warning I gave you last Monday you lost your temper in Professor Umbridge's class again?"*

Though the words were directed not at her but at Harry, Hermione still felt like ice had been slipped down her spine. It was a good thing Professor McGonagall was head of Gryffindor House. She could easily be as terrifying as Snape, but she was less likely to throw out detentions as if they were sweets. Still, she shrunk behind the pages of the Prophet. Which, unfortunately, wasn't enough to keep her from Harry's ire when she pointed out that at least McGonagall was fair to advise caution.

There were a couple of good things about the day, however. Whether because she was still irritated with Harry or because it simply was the way she was, McGonagall gave as good as she got when Umbridge observed Transfiguration that morning. Several times, Hermione had had to bite the inside of her lip when her head of House responded with either acerbic wit or heavy disdain.

Oh yes, Hermione thought to herself, as she, Ron, and Harry were ushered out of the room. Snape definitely took a leaf from her book.

And, though she thought he was an idiot for doing so, Hermione felt a guilty kind of relief when Harry landed himself in more trouble while Umbridge observed Care of Magical Creatures later that day. With all of these detentions he was getting, she would easily be able to slip away unnoticed to Snape's office that evening.

So slip away she did, only having to hint at studying after dinner to send Ron speeding upstairs to find his broom. Smirking to herself, she cast a quick look around the deserted entrance hall, then hurried to the safety of the dungeon shadows.

"Good evening, s–Ouch!"

Upon entering Snape's office, a Stinging Hex had struck her on the arm, and she'd dropped her bag from her shoulder. She looked up to find Snape standing still and tall as a pillar near where his desk typically stood. All the furniture in the room had been pushed to the walls. Only the bare minimum of candles had been lit such that she could make out the glowing edges of ingredient bottles, but none of the contents therein.

"Sir, what–?"

But with a short flick, another hex flew her way, and she just managed to leap out of the way to avoid it. She watched as it passed her. Just before it could hit the stone wall, it struck an almost invisible barrier, and the magic diffused around that point in glowing blue-white ripplies.

"Your reflexes are weak," Snape said from twenty feet away, and she snapped her head back.

"I didn't know you were going to–"

"Your practical ability in Defense is your weakest point. Or didn't you want to learn applied defensive magic?" She heard the subtle disdain in his voice. "Think, Miss Granger."

That was all the warning she got before he struck again. But she was too slow to block him, and the hex buzzed along her kneecap even as she pulled her wand out of her pocket.

"Again," he called.

And that was the last time he spoke. For the next several minutes, he cast quickly and silently. Hermione dodged twice and was hit three more times before she successfully parried his attack with a Protego. His spell rebounded and he shifted a couple of feet to let it fly behind him and strike the shield which he had encased them both inside of. As the last light of the spell radiated around the dome of a shield, she saw him raise a hand and curl his fingers toward himself twice. Taking that as her cue, she attacked.

"Expelliarmus!" she cried, brandishing her wand in the air.

Snape didn't even bother to step out of the way, only watching lazily as her spell missed him by more than a foot.

"Don't tell me, Miss Granger, that you've learned everything about spell casting from Potter," he drawled.

Face burning, Hermione thought wildly. Whether Snape was commenting on her choice of spell or her poor aim, she didn't know. Hermione wasn't athletic. She knew she wouldn't improve her aim in less than five seconds. So what could she do differently that wouldn't require perfect aim?

"Bombarda!" she called, and aimed her wand not at Professor Snape, but at the flagstones near his feet.

The stones exploded and a silent shield surrounded Snape a second later. Rubble bounced off of the shield with dull thuds. As the shield lowered, Snape gave a short nod. And then they jumped into the fray again.

Hermione's Protego came up successfully several more times, but Snape landed multiple more hits. Hermione's mind whirred, trying to keep up with Snape's movements, but running out of creative ideas. With each dodge, a gasp left her throat. Her lungs and thighs were burning. A volley of spells shot toward her, and she couldn't dodge them all. A hex struck her foot and she tripped. She threw out her arm as she fell and let out a loud hiss as a sharp pain went up the length of her forearm.

"Enough," Snape said briskly, emotionlessly, and then he was crouching at her side.

"I'm fine," Hermione said breathlessly. She sat up, one knee bent and the other splayed out to the side, and held her arm in towards her chest. "It's just a scratch."

Wordlessly, Snape took her wrist and pulled her arm to himself. With the other hand, he gingerly lifted the torn robe sleeve off her skin, then pushed it up past her elbow. It was, in fact, a bit more than a scratch. A gash stretched from her elbow almost to her wrist. She winced as she looked at the smear of blood covering her arm, as if an Impressionist painter had gotten particularly heavy-handed with the paintbrush.

Snape raised an eyebrow at her, as if to say, "Just a scratch?" Hermione pressed her lips together to avoid a retort and tried to slow her breathing. She was practically gasping for air after their duel, whereas he looked as calm as the lake on a windless day.

Under his breath, Snape chanted something like a song. The words, though rasped out from what sounded like a dry throat, were perfectly and beautifully pitched. Hermione felt a cool, almost numbing, sensation, followed by a warm breeze, and she watched as her skin pulled itself back together. Snape sang a few more notes, then pulled out his wand. It hovered centimeters above her skin as he siphoned off the blood with lukewarm water, both substances evaporating into a pale pink mist. Her arm was completely mended and somewhat shiny.

Hermione began to pull her arm away. "Thank–"

But Snape didn't draw away. Instead, he pulled her sleeve back down, then ran his wand along the cloth, siphoning off the blood again, seamlessly stitching the fabric back together, then straightening out the sleeve before finally dropping her wrist and getting to his feet.

"Thank you," Hermione said properly this time.

"We must work on your stamina," he said, pointing his wand at the flagstones and mending her explosion. "You were out of breath within five minutes."

Hermione's cheeks burned.

"We must also work on your aim," Snape continued. He canceled the shield and flicked his wand, sending furniture back to its rightful spots. "It is clear you have never taken part in a real duel, and clear that you've no hand-eye coordination whatsoever."

He turned to her and sat as a chair zoomed to him. He gestured with a nod to a chair that swept up alongside her, and she scrambled into it. Another flick, and a glass of water appeared in midair before her. She took it gratefully. Once she had a sip, he spoke again.

"You hesitate, as if you're waiting for permission to cast your next spell. Never wait," he said, and his hard eyes bore into her own. "The slightest hesitation may make all the difference in whether you survive a fight."

Hermione gulped. Somehow, and it seemed ludicrous to think so now, she had forgotten in the midst of their exercise that this was all preparation for a war, a very real war. She nodded and took another drink.

"Your first use of the Bombarda spell was creative. But do not waste time thinking about being creative. Use what works, even if it's something you've done before. But we don't want you to be too predictable. Therefore–" He stood, banished the chair wordlessly, and went to his desk. "We will work on wordless casting."

Hermione blinked.

"But sir. We're not supposed to learn nonverbal magic until sixth year."

"Oh yes," Snape said lightly, lowering himself into his chair and sliding a roll of parchment and inkwell toward himself. "I forgot that the war is going to schedule itself upon your timetable. How silly of me."

The sarcastic edge in his last sentence was not lost upon her.

Hermione had been looking forward to much about being a prefect. The honor of the position, the responsibility, the trust it implied her professors had in her. But she didn't know how much of a perk the Prefects' bath would be. Snape had dismissed her from his office just before 8 o'clock, and only as she passed the statue of Boris the Bewildered did she realize that, healed cut or no, she was still a mess from their session.

"Lavender's blue," she whispered to the door, and slipped inside.

Lavender would be blue, indeed, if she ever laid eyes upon this room and realized she couldn't access it. In little time, Hermione was submerged up to her chin in the swimming pool-sized tub filled with citrus-scented bubbles. Her arm didn't sting at all, and she examined her spotless skin as ribbons of soap slipped down her elbow and fizzed in the water. The warm water soothed the muscles in her legs and she sighed, leaning back into the carved seat at the edge of the bath. The thought of returning to her dorm's single shower and having Lavender and Parvati pound on the door demanding their own turn now seemed like such an inferior option.

Maybe I'll just come here every day, she mused. But her practical side kicked in fairly swiftly. There was no telling when the other prefects and Quidditch captains would take possession of the room. She may have only been very lucky to have found the room available to her use. In that case…

She made best use of the room, diving down into the water and getting a few laps in before engaging in her least favorite sport: tackling her hair. But the streams of soap the bath poured out at her prompting slid easily through her hair, detangling it almost instantly.

With real regret, she pulled herself out of the bath after half an hour, slipped on a bath robe, and padded over to the closest sink. She wiped down the lightly fogged mirror.

"Aha!"

Hermione jumped with a squeak as a glimmer of a mouth formed on the mirror.

"Oh, settle your nerves, dear. I know just what to do with you," the mirror said.

"Do?" Hermione asked, clutching her robe closer around herself. Is there any mirror in all of Hogwarts that doesn't talk?

A trio of small pots popped into existence along the sink's narrow ledge.

"Take them each in turn," the mirror said. At Hermione's stupified look, it pressed on somewhat irritably. "What? Do you think you're the only student with an unmanageable mane who ever came to this school?"

"Ah," she said shortly, eyeing the pots with a look of comprehension. "You see, I'm not really one for–"

"Of course you're not," the mirror said. "Go on."

Hermione unscrewed the lids of each container and gave hesitant sniffs. The products inside, which ranged from gel to cream appearance, bore very faint scents. Hearing the mirror clear its throat, she shrugged–what was the worst that could happen?–and dipped her fingers into the pots. She ran the product through her hair, taking correction as the mirror proposed, then examined herself.

"It looks the same," she said, an accusatory note in her voice.

"Just place your hand on my side," the mirror said.

Hermione's brows raised. The mirror huffed. "Here," it said, and a glow emanated from a spot on the mirror. Hermione pressed her palm to it, and she felt a rush of hot air travel up her arm and into her face.

"There," the mirror said.

Hermione opened her eyes, which had squinted in reaction to the blast of heat, and blinked several times. Her hair, usually a riot of curls with assorted thickness and a halo of frizz, spiraled over her shoulders in neat, smooth loops.

"How–" she reached up a hand to touch her hair. It was impossibly soft.

"Magic, dearie," the mirror said, amused. "You should be set for a week. Now off you trot."

As the products had worked on her hair, her thoughts likewise untangled as she reviewed the day filled with classes, Umbridge observations, and the training session with Snape. A glowing bubble seemed to buoy her up the stairs after the evening with Snape. As much as Umbridge's cloyingly sweet and downright evil expressions set Hermione on edge, she felt a triumphant kind of pride knowing that she was retaliating, if only silently, against Umbridge's plans.

But not everyone had metaphorically made a deal with the devil, nor was willing to, she thought. It seemed like half of the school didn't even believe Voldemort was back, nor were they going to do the additional independent work to keep up Defense studies even to prepare for O.W.L.s. Not without a real teacher. And Snape had already outright refused to properly teach an additional class.

What they needed was someone who was good at defense and could openly teach anyone who wanted to learn. Someone people would respect and admire. Someone like…

She halted on the dormitory staircase midstep.

"Oh, Hermione, you are such an idiot," she said under her breath, before pushing open the door.

"Hey, Hermione. This arrived for–" A gasp split the air and Parvati covered her mouth with both hands. She removed them, grinning in astonishment. "What did you do to your hair?!"

From her bed, Lavender turned around, an almost eager look in her face that melted away when she actually saw Hermione. Her mouth twisted for a moment, as if she were forcing it not to open in shock, and then she gave a kind of jerky shrug before she turned back to locating her pajamas. She still wasn't speaking to Hermione after she'd told her off for calling Harry a liar. Which was fine by Hermione.

Parvati, on the other hand, had remained as much of a peace-keeping Switzerland as she could when all three girls were in the dorm. So Hermione turned to her with a small smile.

"Just trying something new," she said simply and took the roll of parchment Parvati was holding out to her.

It felt heavy, and Hermione immediately knew it was wrapped around something solid and cylindrical, and possibly made of glass.

"It looks great!" Parvati said, beaming.

Hermione made a noncommittal noise as she went over to her bed, dropped her bag on the chair next to it, and sat upon the covers. She slid a finger under the plain wax seal and unfurled the parchment. A small vial filled with bright yellow liquid fell into her lap. She picked up the vial and tilted it from side to side, watching as tiny bubbles flowed slowly in one direction, then the next. She returned to the parchment, upon which spiky letters spelled out the message:

Murtlap essence – good for magically-induced scars.

Hermione frowned. How did he know? Still, as she gathered her books to head down to the common room to find Ron, the vial in her pocket thudded against her thigh.