Ch 6 Setbacks and Second Engagements

 

For everyone who gets the automatic chapter update notice — yes, you are getting a notice that Chapter 6 has been uploaded twice. When I first finished Chapter 6, I wasn't real happy with it, but after poking at it awhile, I washed my hands of it and went ahead and posted. Of course, after I posted, inspiration struck. Kabuki1 actually helped that along with her (his?) comment that Ron and Harry were mysteriously absent. So, unable to leave well enough alone, I redid Chapter 6. There weren't a whole lot of changes made, so if you don't want to re-read the chapter, you don't have to. If you'd like to re-read it, be my guest. I will do nothing to stop you. You can even re-review if you want, but that's not required for anyone but Vicki211.

Thanks CaeriaChapter 6 — Setbacks and Second Engagements

Sometime during the third week of S.N.O.R.T.'s campaign, Hermione received a suspicious glare coupled with a grunt in reply to a quietly murmured, "Good afternoon, Sir." Taking the grunt as a positive sign, while completely ignoring the warning of the glare, she practically walked on air for the rest of that day. Even the boys had asked her what she was 'so bloody cheerful about.'

Ron's words, of course, though Harry had shared the sentiment.Neville sat propped up against his headboard, several different texts arrayed in a half circle around him. He was scribbling furiously on a piece of parchment, stopping every so often to lean over one of the open books on the bed. He'd read a few passages, mumble a few disjointed words under his breath, and then return to his writing. A few moments later, with a flourish of his quill, Neville added his last sentence.

Sitting back with a stretch, he looked over what he'd written. The essay topic was an examination of the types of cauldrons used in modern potion making and how each metal choice could affect the potion being brewed. "Tell me what you think of this," Neville said. Then clearing his throat, Neville began to read aloud.

"The following will declare the natural principles and procreations of Minerals: where first it is to be noted, the natural principles of each. All metals and minerals, whereof there are sundry and diverse kinds, can positively or negatively impact the potion they are used to brew. According to the learned Alchemical texts, the purity and impurity of the metals used can have drastic changes upon said potions. This state of purity and impurity moves in sequence from Gold to Silver, Silver to Steel, Steel to Lead, Lead to Copper, and finally Copper to Iron. It must be noted that when given the choice, most modern alchemical and potions scholars will chose steel cauldrons as the least reactive agent in brewing. However, Iron brewing should not be discounted, as the natural state of the impurities found within Iron cauldrons can be most beneficial when working with potion bases dealing with the humors of the body."

Neville stopped and looked up, fixing his eyes on his audience. "Do you think it too much? I don't want it to sound too stuffy as an opening paragraph."

His immobile audience, propped up against a Gryffindor-gold cushion, neither agreed nor disagreed. Neville, not expecting an answering, continued his one-sided dialogue. "Any thoughts on the second transition paragraph? I could rework that one a bit to try to smooth it out some. I'm rather proud of the body of the text though. That book Hermione lent me on cauldron properties really helped, I think."

Neville stuck one hand under the covers and came back out with his ruler. After careful measurements, he looked back up at the Snape doll with a grin. "Ooh, Little Sev, look at that. I'm actually two inches over the 48-inch requirement limit. I really do think your larger and scarier counterpart will have to give me a passing grade for this one. I'm sure I've covered"

"Hey Nev, who are you . . " Dean Thomas stuck his head into the room, "talking to in . . ." and then trailed off as he caught sight of Neville sitting in the room alone. "Odd," he muttered, "I could have sworn I heard you talking to someone."

Neville, his heart beating furiously from the spiking adrenaline of the near miss managed to stammer out his hello to Dean. "W-What's up, Dean?"

"Oh, we were just getting ready to go down to dinner. Just wanted to see if you were ready."

"Sure, sure. Just give me a minute to clean up the mess and I'll be right down."

"Okay." Dean pulled back and let the door to the dorm room close with a quiet snick.

Neville put a hand up to his racing heart and took a few deep breaths. Then, reaching over, he pulled back the bedspread he'd hastily thrown over the Snape doll when Dean has opened the door. Picking up the doll, he smoothed down its rumpled robes and hair. "Sorry, about that, Little Sev, but you couldn't be seen." Wrapping the doll back up in its black covering, Neville carefully stowed it in his bookbag. A few steps from the door he stopped and reconsidered. "It's just paranoia," he said aloud, but nevertheless, Neville retreated to the bag, pulled out the black bundle and stowed it under his pillow. Satisfied, he headed downstairs.Professor Snape unrolled the scroll a little further looking for the rest of the essay. He flipped the scroll over thinking that maybe it had been continued on the backside. Pristine white parchment met his gaze. Turning the scroll back over, he glanced at the name confirming that it did indeed belong to Miss Hermione Granger.

Frowning in confusion, he pulled a wooden ruler from beneath the stack of other scrolls on his desk. With a flick of his wrist, the scroll unrolled it full length. Lining up the ruler he ticked off each of the assigned three feet. "Thirty-six inches exactly."

Eyes slitted, he sat back in his chair contemplating the essay before him. He pondered this change for several long minutes as he rubbed one finger against his bottom lip, unsure of its meaning. Her handwriting was still the neat, easily readable cursive she'd always used. She had not attempted to squeeze more words into the allotted length. Pulling the ruler to him again, he checked the margins. Exact as always. He scanned back over the scroll, noting her research and notations. She'd written the essay on the uses of unicorn hair in potions with textbook precision. But re-reading the document he realized that she'd not done the extra work she'd become infamous for. There were no sidebar discussions on unicorn blood, horn or history. Miss Granger discussed the topic of the report and that topic alone.

Impossible.

Frown deepening into a scowl he reached into the bottom drawer of his desk to pull out Granger's file. Pulling out his copies of her last few papers he began re-reading them. Her last three papers were all exactly the required length. So roughly a month ago, Miss Granger's essays had changed. What was the significant of that time frame? Thinking back, he couldn't recall anything that should cause such a change. He'd been yelling at her for six years to write only the assignment, why had she now decided to listen? And did this strange behavior have anything to do with her other strange behaviors of late? More importantly, he thought, as he rubbed at tired eyes, why the hell had it taken him this long to realize her essays had changed?

Severus Snape was not a man who liked mysteries. He'd learned long ago that mysteries did nothing but cause problems when what they hid was finally revealed. The girl had just officially become a mystery.

"At what are you playing, Miss Granger?" he asked aloud, though there was no one there to answer.Neville, seated on the couch in front of the Common Room fireplace, was deep into his Potions textbook, trying to completely absorb the chapter on topical medications. Little Sev, safely ensconced and hidden from prying eyes, was tucked in the bookbag resting at his feet. He'd actually already read the chapter once but later tonight he had another class with Professor Granger-Snape. He wanted to make sure that he knew as much on the topic as possible. The subject matter was actually quite interesting as medicinal potions tended to rely almost entirely on Herbology for ingredients. If it wasn't for the looming specter of Professor Snape, there were times Neville thought that Potions could even be his second favorite class. There was something fascinating about the process that took Neville's plants and transformed their innate properties into tangible results.

His concentration was so complete that he didn't notice when Colin Creevey left a game of Exploding Snap with some of his year-mates and sat down beside Neville on the couch."Hey Hermione, can I ask you something?"

Hermione looked up from her Ancient Runes book and smiled at the fifth year in front of her, who was nervously flicking a small lever on his ever-present camera back and forth. Colin, had over the years lost some of his boundless enthusiasm, but he had still retained some of that wide-eyed awe that had first marked him as a first-year when it came to Harry, Ron and Hermione. At least now, five years later, Colin could talk to Harry without getting tongue-tied. "Ask away, Colin?"

Colin shuffled his feet a bit, digging the toe of one shoe into the carpet. "I was talking to Neville earlier. I wanted to know if he could tell me what he has been doing to get better grades in Potions. Rumor has it that Professor Snape even gave Neville points in class." Colin grimaced. "I'm not doing so well and my mum is going to kill me if I fail." Colin gave an exaggerated shudder. "All I can say is that it's a good thing that my mum is Muggle and can't send Howlers."

Colin gave Hermione a nervous smile. "Anyway, Neville said you'd been helping him but he wouldn't tell me how. He said I had to come ask Professor Granger-Snape, but he wouldn't explain what he meant by that. So, can you help me the way you've help Neville?"

Could she help Colin? Hermione didn't know. She'd really never thought about helping anyone else in Potions. She was intimately familiar with Neville's problems. She wasn't sure what was causing Colin's issues.

Sensing Hermione starting to waiver, Colin pulled out all the stops and turned his saddest expression on her, all big eyes and woeful expression. "Please, Hermione?"

Well, she thought, S.N.O.R.T.'s goal had been Neville and dunderheads in general. "All right, Colin, we'll give it a try. Meet Neville after dinner. He'll bring you up to the Room of Requirement; that's where we're meeting. Bring your current homework for Potions and the syllabus you guys are using. I'll need to find out where in the curriculum your class is. Oh, and bring your potions kit, you'll need that too."

"And Colin," she paused, making sure she had his full attention, "there is nothing secret about my helping Neville. However, you might not want to spread around the way in which I'm helping. There is a high probability of Professor Snape putting Gryffindor's House points down into negative numbers if he were to hear about what is exactly going on."

Feeling a bit nervous about exactly what he was getting into, Colin nodded. At least Hermione wasn't requiring him to sign anything. After seeing what she'd done to Maria Edgecomb, Colin never wanted to cross Hermione.

Hermione suddenly smiled, lifting the serious atmosphere that had developed. "Okay, make sure you come with Neville and bring your things and we'll see what we can do."

Knowing a dismissal when he heard one, Colin headed up to his room to gather up the things she'd requested.She had had big brown eyes.

Severus needed sleep. The pull of it was a Siren's song that flirted with seductive promise along the edges of his senses. However, like any true Siren, the offered promise of bliss turned to horror whenever he closed his eyes.

Wet with tears and lit with terror, her eyes had pleaded with him to save her.

The events of the night's Revel still clung to him with cold, ghostly fingers. The Dark Lord wanted a message sent that resistance would not be tolerated. To that end, two families had been targeted; two families whose crime consisted of Muggle blood within the last three generations and open opposition to the Dark Lord. Their deaths tonight would send a wave of fear through the entire wizarding world. After tonight, even more wizards and witches would bow down before Lord Voldemort, if only to ensure the safety of their families.

Truly there was no lonelier place to be, than having only the killers of your family around you.

He'd learned a long time ago to shut away these nights for his own sanity, but sometimes the emotions were more difficult to lock away. Until he could no longer hear the screams or taste the ashes in the back of his throat, sleep wasn't an option for him this night.

He hadn't saved her. Couldn't save her. Wasn't even sure he could save himself anymore.

He had discovered that even the strongest Dreamless Sleep potion was no longer a match for the horror that lurked in the deepest recesses of his mind. He was also already dangerously close to becoming addicted to the sweet oblivion offered by the potion. His back was already bowed beneath the weight of both the Dark Lord and Albus. He didn't think he could support another 'monkey,' as he had heard Muggles call it.

She hadn't begged. Just looked at him. Expecting more from him than he could give.

He felt like he was trying to walk the thin edge of a razor. On one side the Dark Lord was pulling him down, while on the other side suspicious Order members were expecting him to topple any minute and were relishing in that fact so they could then point with heads held high in smug arrogance that they had never trusted him in the first place. And all the while, the razor's edge cut deeply into the bare soles of his feet with every step.

Severus snorted in self-mockery at the lurid imagery. He really did need sleep if he was turning this morbidly poetic. He was just so damned tired. Looking for respite and something to calm the roiling cauldron of his own emotions, he had left his quarters to walk the corridors, hoping that once again the peace and quiet of empty, shadowed hallways would calm him down. Hours later, with false dawn breaking, he was just finding his equilibrium again, the screams of the nameless girl fading away into the peace of the castle.

Just looked at him with big brown eyes wet with tears.

By the time the students were up and roaming the hallways, he'd once again have mastery over himself and his emotions. He just needed a little more time, and maybe a headache potion, to be able to face this day.Hermione awoke early; the grey of almost dawn just beginning to light her windows. Humming with youthful energy, she decided to get a little extra reading done in the library before breakfast. She had found that in the early morning hours, the library was inevitably deserted, not even Madam Pince would be in yet. With its huge east-facing windows allowing her to watch the sunrise, the library had quickly become one of her favorite places to begin the day.

Knowing she would have to hurry if she wanted to see the sunrise, Hermione rolled out from under her covers, dislodging a slumbering Crookshanks, who gave an affronted meow before he crawled back under the covers into the warmth Hermione had just vacated.

Gathering up her toiletry items she hurried to the prefects' bath. Once again, noting her time, she performed a quick bath before pulling on her school uniform. Glancing at her hair in the mirror, she gave it up as a lost cause and pulled the mass of curls up into a messy ponytail.

Morning routine complete, Hermione grabbed her backpack and headed out of Gryffindor Tower. She smiled when she saw Professor Snape coming towards her down the corridor that housed the library. She even felt a small bubble of genuine warmth towards the dark man stalking determinedly in her direction. In an odd way, she had begun to think of him as hers, or at least her responsibility; a mental daydream with which she amused herself that followed along the lines of Androcles and the Lion. Professor Snape made a particularly fierce, black-maned lion in her daydreams with Neville as his personal thorn in his paw.

Happy daydream of a suitably grateful Professor Snape in mind, she smiled widely at her professor as he drew even with her and offered him a cheery good morning. She was completely unprepared and defenseless against the reaction her words unleashed.

Hermione was almost even with the Potions master when he stepped to his side, directly in front of her. Stumbling to a halt so as to not run into him from his unexpected move, Hermione looked up in confusion. What she saw in his face made Hermione take a step backwards in fright while her hand inched toward the robe pocket that held her wand.

The professor followed her for that small step, his eyes black slits of rage. Most frightening of all was the silence with which Professor Snape stalked her, forcing her relentlessly backwards until she felt the cold stone of the castle meet her back.

Still he said nothing; no cutting remarks, no points deduction or detentions. Trembling, Hermione had never been more scared in her life, the fact that she didn't understand what had set him off only adding to her fear. The man pinning her to the wall with nothing more than his presence was nothing like anything she'd ever seen. Tears, beyond her control, welled up in her eyes and fell in silent tracks down her cheeks, but Hermione didn't lower her eyes, some instinct of self-preservation screaming at her that to show submission now would invite something she'd didn't even want to contemplate.

Eyes that were anything but their usual cold black stared back at her. "Do you think me stupid, Miss Granger?"

Hermione shuddered at that softly voiced question, all the more terrifying for its lack of heat or anger. Unable to find her voice, Hermione shook her head from side to side.

He took another half-step towards her, still not close enough to touch, but enough to send her already racing heart into a pounding frenzy. "Do you think me blind then?

He took another half step towards her, continuing in that same soft voice. "Do you think a pleasant greeting is going to make any difference? That the evil loose in the world is going to give you a cherry wave if you just wave first? Let me disabuse of that infantile notion. You are hereby welcome to rejoin your addle-witted compatriots in running from me in fear. I do not know what kind of game you think you are playing but I can assure you that if I did not fall to Potter Senior and his friends, I will not be made a fool by you and your friends now."

Hermione couldn't think, could only shake her head back and forth. She wasn't. She wouldn't.

Seeing a great shudder run through his body, she froze, her breath caught in her lungs.

"Run," he rasped out, run."

Hermione ran, behind her she heard the sound of something hitting the wall.The girl the thrice-damned, happy, Gryffindor girl no one had the right to be happy, no one when . . . he wasn't even sure of the words he spoke — his suspicions and fears, past and present, all jumbling together — he knew only of his shattered, hard-won equilibrium and the all-consuming rage that swept through him.

How dare she! How dare she be happy and safe and secure? Miss Granger who was changing the habits of six long years for no apparent reason. Miss Hermione Granger who was planning something, setting him up for something more humiliation, more taunting.

Hermione Granger who had big brown eyes. Eyes that stared up at him, lashes darkened, cheeks wet with silent tears.

Oh, sweet Merlin.

"Run," he rasped out, "run."

He hit the wall mere seconds later.Hermione ran, the doors to the library suddenly appearing on her right. Hitting them at full tilt, the heavy doors swung back to crack loudly against the walls. She paid no attention, her only thoughts to run and hide. Winding deeper into the tall stacks, Hermione sought to hide herself among the books, darting down little used aisles until she was far into the maze created by the shelves. Only then did she drop to the ground, her breath coming in great sobbing gasps as she tried to make sense of what had just happened.

She was still shaking when she finally made it down to the Great Hall for breakfast, thankful that she had at least had some time to gather her composure.

"Hermione, are you all right?"

Hermione turned to give Ron a small smile but that affirmation didn't seem to sway him from his scrutiny. While Ron could be as clueless and self-absorbed as any teenager, his Molly genes seemed to pop up at the most inopportune moments. Right now, she was in no shape to deal with a solicitous Weasley.

Brightening her smile, she hid her still shaking hands in her lap. "Really, Ron, I'm fine. Just one of those mornings when everything seems a little off."

That seemed to reassure him, but Hermione caught him sending her odd glances throughout breakfast. Professor Snape, she noticed, never appeared at breakfast, for which she was thankful. She was unsure whether she could face him so soon after . . . after that. Hermione shuddered as the memory of his face rose up in front of her. If the eyes really were the windows to the soul, Professor Snape lived in his own personal hell.

The sound of wings roused her from her thoughts and Hermione spared a small, genuine small for the brown speckled owl that landed in front of her. She didn't think that the concept of owl mail would ever get old for her. Tucking the required Knuts into the bird's neck pouch, Hermione took the offered "Daily Prophet."

Opening the paper, she gasped aloud at the picture spread across the top half — a modest house burned with flickering black and white flames while the Dark Mark hovered in the air above.

"What's wrong?"

Hermione looked up to meet Harry's gaze. She debated for a moment, before she answered his question by holding out the paper.

Spreading it out on the table, Harry stared at the picture, his face grim, while Ron read over his shoulder in a hushed tone. "Sources say the Death-Eater attack occurred on the Withmore family sometime between midnight and 2 AM in the town of Harrogate outside of Leeds . . . The Withmores, a prominent mixed-blood family, were strong opponents of You-Know-Who . . . Ministry Aurors continue to investigate . . . the dead include Mr. John Withmore, Sr, Mr. and Mrs. John Withmore, Jr. and their eight-year old daughter Anna Withmore."

Ron stopped reading as Harry crumpled up the paper into a tight ball and stood, his body almost vibrating with his anger.

"Harry?" Hermione questioned softly.

"Later," the Boy Who Lived snapped. "Right now, just leave me alone."

Respecting Harry's wishes, Ron and Hermione watched Harry walk out of the Great Hall while all around him students whispered and looked his way.

"He's hiding something," the redhead beside her said.

Eyes still on Harry's retreating back, Hermione asked, "What makes you think that?"

She caught Ron's shrug out of the corner of her eye. "Don't know, really. Something's eating at him though, something bad." Ron glanced around to make sure no one was listening to him. Lowering his voice even more, he added, "He's been reading a book lately. It looks like something from the Restricted Section, and I don't know how he got it."

"He stole a book?" Hermione hissed in shock, her voice rising.

Ron rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Priorities, Hermione. Focus, and keep your voice down. Swiping the book isn't important. The book itself is important. It's a book on the Unforgivables with emphasis on the Killing Curse. Maybe we need one of those Muggle intermissions."

Hermione looked confused for a moment before she understood what Ron was saying. "Not intermission, intervention." Hermione turned thoughtful eyes back towards the direction Harry had taken. "That might not be a bad idea at all."A yell and pounding fists on wood shattered the quiet dormitory. "Hermione! Hermione Granger!"

Hermione rolled out of her bed, wand in hand, feet set in a defensive stand before she'd even completely opened and focused her eyes. Whatever her sleep-fogged brain was expecting, a trembling first-year standing in her open doorway in flannel pajamas with kittens on them wasn't it. Blinking at the girl for a moment, she fought to remember the girl's name. She was saved from her memory loss as Lavender stuck her head out from her bed curtains. "Lucy, what's going on?"

Lucy shifted her weight from one foot to the other in impatience. "My roommate, Gemma, Gemma Stuart, she's sick. Sick bad. She's throwing up blood. Mina, she's my other roommate, she said we needed to get her to the Infirmary, but it's past curfew." Lucy's gaze swung back to Hermione. "She said to get you 'cause you're a prefect."

Now that she understood the problem, Hermione's practical nature kicked in dispelling the last remnants of sleep. Throwing on her black school robe over her thin cotton nightgown, Hermione headed towards the door. "Lavender," she said as she got to the doorway, "can you go wake up Professor McGonagall. She'll want to know. I'll collect Miss Stuart and get her down to Madam Pomfrey. Professor McGonagall can meet us there."

Hurrying down the curving stairs that led to the first-year rooms, Hermione entered to find Gemma Stuart curled up in a tight ball, her arms wrapped tight around her stomach. Hermione dropped to a crouch beside the girl's bed while her two roommates stood shuffling their feet nervously behind her. Reaching out, Hermione put her hand on the girl's forehead. From the heat coming off her, her sweat-soaked hair and glassy eyes, Hermione decided against getting her up and walking her down to the infirmary.

Sitting back on her heels, she pulled her wand. Gathering her concentration she waved her wand and intoned "Mobilicorpus," taking care that her pronunciation and wand movements were correct. She'd never actually performed this spell, so she let out a breath of relief as Gemma Stuart rose smoothly up into the air to hover a foot or so above the bed sheets. Motioning for Lucy to open the door, Hermione floated the semi-conscious girl out the door. Maneuvering Miss Stuart along the staircase and through the darkened Common Room, Hermione felt the pull on her magic before she'd gone even a few steps through the portrait door. Holding the spell and concentration needed to keep Miss Stuart level and moving was harder than she'd realized. Gritting her teeth in determination, she quickened her pace.

She was halfway down the hallway, when she realized with a sickening dismay that she should have thought to grab a blanket to cover the younger girl. A trip through the icy corridors of Hogwarts wasn't going to help the shivers wracking the child's body. And it was cold, as Hermione's own bare feet could attest to, as in her hurry she'd run out without her own slippers.

"No help for it," she muttered, as one-handed she unbuttoned her own robe before tossing it over Miss Stuart. The girl was her responsibility and, if necessary, Hermione could live with cold toes. Murmuring soothing words to the other girl, Hermione continued as quickly as possible towards the Infirmary, Miss Stuart's floating body slowly dipping down further to the floor as Hermione own magic started to flag under the strain. She wasn't used to doing magic that required her to hold the power required for the spell for such a length of time.

"Let me guess," a disembodied voice said, "there was a book you just had to have from the library?"

Hermione jumped, letting out a startled shriek as Professor Snape stepped out of the shadows of a side passageway. In her fright, she barely managed to control the Mobilicorpus spell holding Miss Stuart aloft.

"Twenty points, Miss Granger, for wandering the halls after. . ." He stopped as he caught sight of the girl floating slightly behind Hermione, the black school robe tossed over her blending her into the shadows of the hallway.

Stepping around her, he approached Miss Stuart, the backs of two fingers coming to rest on the girl's feverish skin.

Hermione, her last encounter with this man still fresh in her mind, backed slowly away from him. He had scared her badly and she was notably wary of him now.

"What happened?" he snapped.

Hermione jumped slightly. "Her roommates woke me up, sir." Hermione said, as the professor continued his quick check of Miss Stuart's vitals. "She's running a temperature, sweating, and her roommates said she was throwing up blood earlier. When I got to her room she was like she is now, half-awake but not really responding."

Pulling out his own wand, Professor Snape demanded, "Release the spell to me, before you have her dragging along the floor. Then run ahead to the Infirmary and tell Madam Pomfrey we are on our way."

Raising her wand, Hermione felt a wash of relief as her professor seamlessly took over the Mobilicorpus spell, Miss Stuart's floating body instantly rising back up from her sagging position to straighten out into a firm horizontal line. Feeling the magical strain lift from her, Hermione was reminded of what he'd told her about magic Affinity. Even under these circumstances, with her stomach tied in knots from being this close to him, she couldn't help but marvel at the smooth transition of control from her magic to his, or completely suppress a shiver, as for a brief second, she touched his magic with her senses — magic that was deep and dark and brought images of the ocean at night to Hermione's mind.

Shaking her head to disburse the images, she spun around to take off running when "Stop!" in a voice that was not to be disobeyed halted her in her tracks.

Snape was looking at her with an expression of disbelief. "Where are your robe and shoes, Miss Granger?" he demanded.

She cringed at both the words and his expression. "I forgot my shoes in my haste to check on Miss Stuart, sir." She gestured back to the floating girl. "I forgot to grab a blanket and she was shivering. I figured she needed my robe more than I did."

"Five points for not having more common sense, girl. It's the beginning of April in Scotland."

Hermione struggled against the brash words that wanted to spill forth; regardless of how nervous he now made her. How dare he take away points for trying to take care of someone else? Working herself up into a right snit, she was completely gobsmacked when Professor Snape reached up and undid the clasp of his teaching robe, shrugging out of it, and then holding the heavy fabric out to her.

Scowling, as she stared back at him in shock, he thrust the robe into her arms. "Quit standing there like a daft ninny. Go rouse Madam Pomfrey."

Jerking under the snap of his words, Hermione threw the robe over her shoulders, covering the thin nightdress she was wearing. Gathered up the excess length of robe in her hands, she gave a quick nod of thanks to Professor Snape and took off at a near run towards the Infirmary. When she arrived, she was relieved that Professor McGonagall was already there with Madam Pomfrey. Both women looking much like Hermione felt, having been pulled from a sound sleep with no time to make themselves presentable. Professor McGonagall was even wearing a tartan dressing gown with her iron-streaked hair loose around her shoulders rather than her customary teaching robes and tightly controlled hair bun.

Both women turned to her as she entered the Infirmary. "Miss Granger, Miss Brown said you were bringing in a sick first-year."

Panting slightly from her run through the school corridors, Hermione explained between breaths. "Yes, Professor. I ran into Professor Snape. He's bringing her. He told me to come ahead and warn Madam Pomfrey."

A few moments later, just as Hermione's breath and heartbeat were settling back down into normal levels, Professor Snape appeared. All attention within the room immediately shifted to the ill student. Forgotten for the moment by the adults, Hermione retreated, sitting down in one of the wooden chairs that rested against the far wall. She knew she should return to the Gryffindor dormitory, but she wanted to take an update to Miss Stuart's friends when she went.

Drawing her legs up, she wrapped Professor Snape's teaching robe around her, tucking the thick fabric under her frozen toes. Oh yeah, warmth. It was good to be warm. Resting her arms on her upraised knees, her hands tucked into the voluminous sleeves, Hermione buried her nose into her crossed arms. Breathing deeply she noticed the scents of sandalwood and honeyed beeswax that clung to the fabric. It was a warm, comforting scent, rather at odds she thought, with the man himself.

Staring across the room at the flurry of activity around Miss Stuart's bed, she pondered her Potions professor as he listened intently to the potions that Madam Pomfrey was requesting. With a small nod, he was gone, Hermione supposed to his own stores to gather the requested potions. He'd looked odd to her eyes until she realized that he'd departed without his usual swirl of black robes trailing behind him; Hermione quirked a small hidden smile at that thought. It was hard to flare those robes when she was currently wrapped up in them.

His robes. She scrunched her toes up in the warm wool. He'd given her his robes. If someone had asked her yesterday if Professor Snape under any circumstances would ever voluntarily give up his robes to student, she would have answered with an emphatic NO! And yet, here she was, wrapped up in yards of black wool. A Professor Snape who gave her his robes didn't make any sense when compared to the madman who had scared her badly outside the library. Remembering, the desolate sound of his voice when he'd told her to run, Hermione suspected that Professor Snape had even scared himself. So why give her the robe?

When Professor Snape returned a few moments later with two flasks in his hands, Hermione frowned as she studied him, for once not having to worry about attracting his attention since he was focused on helping Madam Pomfrey with Miss Stuart.

Working diligently to help a student . . . a Gryffindor student, at that. That shouldn't be any surprise to her. When it came down to it, he'd always done what he could to protect the school and its students, regardless of House affiliation; just look at her, Harry and Ron and number of times that Professor Snape had come to their rescue. He just did it in a way that no one would recognize his involvement. He was ever the consummate Slytherin.

Hermione absently rubbed a bit of the robe edge between her fingers. There was a thought there flirting around the edges of her consciousness. The professor did care about the students, regardless of how it looked on the surface . . . he was the consummate Slytherin . . . he'd scared her and knew it . . . Professor Snape would never apologize to anyone, especially not a student . . . consummate Slytherin . . . he'd given her his robes . . . protection . . . never apologize . . . but . . .

Oh.

He wouldn't, or maybe even couldn't, apologize outright. But he could offer an apology of sorts. Hermione buried her nose back into the fabric stretched across her knees. He'd given her his robes. It wasn't exactly saying that he was sorry for scaring the daylights out of her, but it was close enough in a Slytherin sort of way. Then again, she could be completely delusional and he would have given her the robe anyway since she was running around a cold castle barefoot and in her nightgown. Regardless of the books she was reading on them, trying to figure out Slytherins was a murky business at best.

And while she was thinking of robes, she didn't remember ever seeing the man without his encompassing teaching robes before. She had known that he was tall and lean, but the man standing across the room from her now was beyond lean. He was painfully thin, with the sharp blades of his shoulders making knife-edged projections against the back of his frock coat. It worried her that the apparently immaculately tailored clothes were hanging so loose on his rangy frame, something that a casual observer wouldn't normally see because of the heavy teaching robes that usually swathed his body.

The gauntness she was seeing made her think about how often she had seen him pick at his food lately. She cast her glance back to Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey. Couldn't they see what she did? Was she the only one to notice his lackluster eating habits of late? WHY wasn't he eating? Stress? An ulcer? Something else?

Which lead her to wonder what Professor Snape had been doing up anyway. Pushing her arm from within the enveloping sleeves of the robe, Hermione checked the time. It was almost 3:30 in the morning. No teacher had hall duty that late. No student in his or her right mind would be up wandering around at this hour anyway. And yet, Professor Snape had been patrolling, or at least he'd been walking the hallways of the school. Again, she was left with the question of why? She'd always discounted the stories of Professor Snape's insomnia as student exaggeration or Hogwarts legend. Maybe those stories shouldn't have been discounted so easily. If the Professor really weren't sleeping it would explain a lot — from the dark circles that bruised his eyes on occasion to the hair-trigger temper than left students feeling flayed alive.

He'd been up early or possibly late? when she'd run into him outside the library as well. Was it all tied together?

Lost in contemplation, Hermione missed Professor McGonagall taking note of her presence until the older teacher stepped into Hermione's line of sight, effectively blocking her view of the Potions master and mediwitch.

"Miss Granger, what are you still doing here? You should be in bed," the professor scolded.

Hermione lifted herself from her curled position and stifled a small yawn. "I'm sorry, Professor. I just wanted to get an update about Miss Stuart before heading back. I'm sure her roommates will want to know that she'd doing okay."

Professor Snape chose that moment to walk over, Hermione's robe folded neatly over his arm. "You can tell Miss Stuart's roommates that she is well, but will be remaining in the Infirmary for the next couple of days."

Deciding to test her theory of robe-as-apology, Hermione stood up, letting the professor's robe hang loosely on her smaller frame. Reaching up she rested her hands on the clasp. "Thank you for lending me your robe earlier, sir. It was most kind."

"Kindness had very little to do with the situation. My reputation may incite fear into the student body at large, but I could not allow you to freeze to death."

Choosing her next with great care, Hermione said, "I've never believed you would allow me to come to harm." Keeping her eyes locked with his, she added, "You deserve every courtesy and thanks." There, she could be talking about thanking him for his robe or the greeting that set him off the other morning.

Professor Snape stared back at her, dark eyes revealing nothing of his thoughts. As the silence between them increased, Hermione's nervousness rose. Had she said it wrong? Perhaps these conversations within conversations were a skill best left to Slytherins. Had she given the wrong message?

Professor McGonagall, growing uncomfortable at the cryptic conversation between professor and student stepped into the awkward silence. Taking hold of Hermione's robe she held it out, her other hand extended to take Professor Snape's robe.

With a feeling of frustration, Hermione made the exchange, sliding her arms into her own robe; blushing in embarrassment as Professor McGonagall scolded her on her bare feet before transfiguring her some warm slippers.

"Come, Miss Granger." McGonagall said, "I'll escort you back to the dormitory."

Hermione turned to tell Professor Snape good night, but the man had already returned to Madam Pomfrey's side.

Within nothing else to do, and an impatient Head of House waiting on her, Hermione hurried out.Hermione took a deep breath, held it for the count of three and slowly exhaled. She could do this. Another calming breath. Hold for three. Exhale. She would do this. As the saying goes, you have to get back up on the horse that threw you, or you'd never ride again.

She started walking; her steps slow and measured. She wasn't hurrying, nor was she dawdling along. She'd told him that she wasn't afraid of him. Time to prove it. Hopefully he'd gotten the message and didn't still think she was mocking him or trying to set him up for something.

Four steps.

Three steps.

Two steps.

One . . .

"Good afternoon, Professor Snape." This time, after a short pause, he inclined his head a fraction of an inch in acknowledgement as they passed.

Behind him he didn't see Hermione break into the patented Neville dance step of jump, spin and wiggle.Later that night, Hermione reached into the top drawer of her nightstand, Hermione pulled out her notebook. A quick wand wave later and S.N.O.R.T. was revealed. Flipping through the pages Hermione re-read some of her notations. Like any good researcher, she always kept notes on her progress-to-date.

Neville was making slow, but steady improvement. He seemed less jumpy around Professor Snape although he still had problems when it came to brewing. Colin, well, it was too early to tell about him. She, unfortunately, was having a particularly difficult time when it came to her 'incessant hand-waving' as Professor Snape called it. She hated the silence that filled the classroom when he asked a question and no one else knew the answer. The frustrating part of it all was that she wasn't even sure the professor had noticed her attempts to conform to his classroom expectations.

Her attempts at treating him with the friendly respect afforded the other teachers was meeting with mixed success. He'd nodded to her this afternoon, but the frightening encounter in the library hallway was still fresh in her mind. However, even that confrontation she was now counting as a step forward. It had been obvious from the hateful words he'd hurled at her that he noticed that she had begun treating him differently. The fact that her friendly attitude had only served to confuse him and rouse his suspicious nature couldn't be helped. Their non-conversation in the Infirmary seemed to have made some progress with him though. By returning to her greetings, rather than being scared off, she was hoping that she was reinforcing the message that she was not trying to set him up for some unnamed humiliation but chose to greet him with honest sincerity.

And with that goal in mind, Hermione had made a note within her journal, that overall, Professor Snape was NOT a morning person. Truth be told, he didn't seem to be an afternoon or evening person either, but she was more apt to get a response to her greetings then. He absolutely refused to acknowledge her in the mornings beyond silent snarls. She decided to tailor her own greetings accordingly, from now on only giving him a small smile with a nod of her head in acknowledgement if she met him before noon.

Hermione thumbed through the pages until she got back to the title page. She had two more bullet items to add to S.N.O.R.T.'s agenda; two new points that were a lot more worrisome than the previous ones. Seeing Professor Snape without his camouflaging robes had really concerned her. The man wasn't taking care of himself. Although she had absolutely no clue how to approach that particular problem, she felt compelled to try. So, with the sense of turning an irrevocable corner, Hermione wrote:

Insomnia

Health / Eating Habits

 

Ch 7 Learning

 

Every great endeavor, the kind that reshaped and redefined the world and peoples' perceptions, seemed to have its special headquarters where the rebellion was first planned, campaigns were made, future engagements were deliberated on, and successes and failures were meticulously picked over. The 1612 Goblin Rebellion had the dark and beer-stained tables of the Hog's Head Inn. The systematic teaching of magically gifted individuals had the establishment of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The war against Voldemort had the dilapidated and pixie-infested house at No. 12 Grimmauld Place. And S.N.O.R.T. had Hermione's four-poster, curtained bed. Once again, she found herself flat on her back staring up at the top of her canopy; Crookshanks curled up in a purring ball of ginger hair on her stomach.

Her original goals for S.N.O.R.T. had been fairly simple. Well, she wasn't sure she would call the Neville problem simple, but she found she was enjoying working with him. Colin too, now that he had joined them in their sessions. It was a challenge to work with them; a challenge that her own class work often times failed to give her.

It was her new agenda items that were causing her the most trouble now. She had a feeling that these two were probably more important than anything else she'd done so far. Each point presented its own unique problems. She wasn't quite sure about how to go about finding out what was wrong with Professor Snape. She had her suspicions about what might be causing his lack of appetite — she'd come to realize that he was under an enormous amount of stress, after all. In Hermione's, admittedly, limited experience stress either caused you to eat or stop eating. Or at least, that's what her Aunt Gwen had said when she'd gained forty pounds after her divorce.

If simple stress was putting him off his food, then there was any number of appetite enhancers she could use. Of course, getting those enhancers into his food and drink without being discovered, and subsequently expelled, would be another challenge. She worried though that his lack of appetite was less stress-induced and more medical in nature. He just didn't look well to her, especially now when she was really looking at him and not just seeing the 'greasy git,' as Ron liked to call him.

She was no Healer or Mediwitch. And even if she could find and perform the correct diagnostic charm, the possibly of Professor Snape catching her casting it was fairly high since she would have to be within a few feet of him. She didn't even want to think about what would happen if she made a diagnosis and it was wrong. She could end up poisoning him instead of helping him.

The insomnia, on the other hand, left her completely stumped. How did you make someone sleep if they didn't want to? Short of drugging Professor Snape senseless or knocking him out with a well-timed blow to the back of the head, she didn't have a clue. She knew there were several potions that could induce sleep, but again, getting them into his food or drink without detection would be extremely hard and the more powerful sleeping potions were not something you casually messed around with. The fact that the professor, an accomplished Potions master, didn't seem to be using potions to help him sleep, suggested that she too needed to find another solution to that problem.

She needed a plan, or at least a direction. Or better yet, she needed two plans, one to take care of the eating and one to take care of the insomnia issue. First things first, she thought, eliminate the easier things. Then tackle the harder things. She needed confirmation of her suspicions and there was really only one place to go for that confirmation. A list of what he was eating and what he wasn't would also be helpful. Then, she would return to the library, the other home of her little project.Never one to put off a plan once she'd settled on her course of action, Hermione braved the bracing winds and warming afternoon sunlight of mid April to sit in the Quidditch stands with Harry and Ron during the Hufflepuff-Ravenclaw game that Friday. Hermione had decided that was the best time to approach Harry with her request. With everyone's concentration on the game, shouting as each side's Chasers maneuvered their way across the pitch; no one would pay any attention to them or their conversation.

What she had not counted on, however, was the Hufflepuff Quidditch team shedding their perpetual underdog status to prove to a completely disbelieving crowd that they did indeed know which end of their brooms pointed forward. Attempting to get, and hold, Harry's attention was proving harder than expected.

Trying for the third time, Hermione put a little more emphasis into her voice, cringing as even to her own ears she sounded suspiciously like Molly Weasley getting after the twins. "Harry!"

Harry spared Hermione a quick glance before his attention swung back to the game. "What's up, Hermione?"

Finally, she thought. Leaning in closer, she lowered her voice. "I wanted to know if I could borrow your Map and Cloak for the next couple of days. I need to do-"

She was cut off from her well developed covered story as Harry, along with almost everyone else in the stands, jumped to their feet in a screaming, yelling, mass as the Hufflepuff Seeker caught the Snitch in a gravity and death defying maneuver that made Hermione's stomach clench, ending the game in a surprise upset that had everyone around her talking in animated tones.

"Bloody hell, Harry, did you see that catch?" Ron shook his head in amazement. "Hufflepuff. Never would have suspected it from them. They keep playing like this and they'll have a real shot at the Cup this year."

Before she knew it, the crowd of students around her had carried Hermione away from her two friends. Making growing noises of frustration, she fought her way to the side of the crowd milling around at the bottom of the stand. Going up on her toes in an effort to see over the heads of taller students, she finally spotted Ron's distinctive red hair and dove back into the crowd, fighting her way across.

"There you are, Hermione. Wondered where you'd disappeared to," Ron said as she suddenly appeared before them. Pulling her in between himself and Harry, Ron used his greater bulk to clear an easier path through their fellow students. Students, she absently noted, who were still taking about Hufflepuff's surprising upset of Ravenclaw. She really didn't get the wizarding world's fascination with Quidditch.

"So what were you trying to ask back there, Hermione?" Harry asked, when they fell in beside Ron, the crush of student bodies lessening a bit as the crowd dispersed.

Feeling the need for caution, she did a quick scan to make sure that no one seemed overly interested in their conversation. "I was wondering if I could borrow your Map and Cloak for a couple of days."

Ron sent a light punch into Harry's shoulder. "What do you want to bet it has something to do with homework?"

Hermione affected an air of wounded dignity and launched into her cover. "I have some additional research I need to do on a project I'm working on." Hermione scowled at both of them, but let them draw their own conclusions from her truthful, but vague, reply. If she were caught, it would be better if the two of them could deny any knowledge later of what she was doing.

Harry slung a friendly arm across Hermione's shoulders. "Don't let Ron bother you, Hermione." Harry turned a teasing grin on Ron. "Besides, everyone knows that Ron could do with a little extra research on his schoolwork. He's just jealous of your dedication."

Ron, of course, reacted predictably and aimed a swat at Harry's head. "I'm not jealous!"

Harry ducked the swing and with a whoop of laughter, the chase was on; Harry darting nimbly through the thinning crowd of students, Seeker's reflexes as good on the ground as in the air, while Ron ploughed straight through the middle, scattering students in his way like a Bludger going through a line of Chasers.

Hermione, left alone once again, merely shook her head and muttered the phrase of millions of women the world over, Muggle and Witch alike — "Boys."Wednesday afternoon found Hermione as close to a nervous breakdown as she could get and not be throwing hexes at her two roommates who were currently discussing the pros and cons of dating Ravenclaws.

Seated at her desk on the other side of the room, Hermione stared down at her weekly planner in something that was a mix between horror and absolute panic. She had a Potions essay due the next day that was only half-written. There was a report due in Transfiguration the day after. A creeping Schisandra vine waiting on her and her pruning sheers in Greenhouse Three. Chapter 18 still needed to be re-read for Care of Magical Creatures. Her pre-class Potions discussion with Neville was scheduled for tonight and Colin was still having problems with his potions. She was worried about Harry, and she and Ron still had to hold their intervention to figure out what was up with The Boy Who Lived. She was becoming increasing preoccupied with worrying about Professor Snape and her plans for him, plans that had been temporarily put on hold the last couple of days due to schoolwork, and — she glanced down at her watch — she had a four foot Charms essay due in approximately 22 hours.

By the time she read down everything she had to do for the sixth time, horror and panic had turned into outright hyperventilating. Sitting back she sucked in a deep breath, trying to get control of herself before she went screaming from her room and out of the castle. This wasn't like her 3rd year when all she had to do was attend a few extra classes and keep up with the additional homework. The time turner hours had only been, at most, five extra hours a week.

What she was trying to do now was requiring more than five hours. This was spiraling out of control. Hermione had always prided herself on being a well-organized, I-can-juggle-any-schedule kind of individual. For the first time in her young life, she was coming to the realization that she couldn't do it all. Something had to give.

Breathe, she thought, panic won't get you anywhere.

Looking over her schedule, she looked at the things that were most important to her — Harry, Neville, Colin — and not as surprising as it would seem, Professor Snape.

Breathe.

It was an odd realization for her to think that for the first time in her life, her schoolwork did not come first. Not that it wasn't important, learning and knowledge would always rank highly with her. But the usual driving need of her school work seemed to be muted.

Breathe.

She felt rather hollow inside with the realization of what that meant and what was required; kind of stretched and a little confined all at the same time. She wondered if this was how a snake felt when it was time to shed its skin.

Breathe.

Hermione knew this feeling, had last felt it the day after her 11th birthday when the doorbell had rung to admit a strange, stern looking woman in a long, dark green cloak. She and her parents had had a long talk with Professor McGonagall that afternoon. That evening she'd gone upstairs and packed up her old toys and put away the stuffed animals of her childhood. Sitting down in her newly cleaned room, she'd opened Professor McGonagall's gift of Hogwarts: A History for the first time, accepting the new turn her life had just taken.

Breathe.

Now, like then, it hurt, but it didn't stop her from closing the three extra Charms references books scattered around her. The Charms essay didn't really need the extra references. She already had enough information to get the required four feet. Probably no more than four feet, but she thought maybe Professor Flitwick would enjoy shorter essays from her as much as Professor Snape did.

Breathe.

With only a small pang, she put away her Care of Magical Creatures book. Chapter 18 didn't really have to be re-read. If she forgot something in class, someone else could answer the question.

Breathe.

Resolving to attend to her plans for the next phase of S.N.O.R.T. that evening after meeting with Neville and Colin, Hermione focused her attention to writing her Charms essay.

As the minutes ticked by, her breathing grew easier."Worthless, absolutely bleedin' worthless."

The impassioned outburst from the far side of the Room of Requirements' version of the Potions classroom stopped the question and answer session going on between Neville and Hermione. Hermione raised a brow in a credible imitation of Professor Snape before she drawled, "Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr. Creevey, for language."

Colin had the grace to look marginally ashamed. "Yes, Professor Granger-Snape."

Hermione grimaced. Colin had picked up the nickname from Neville and no amount of asking, yelling, or threatening could make either one of them stop addressing her by the name.

Colin went back to peering disgustedly down into his cauldron. "It's just that I don't understand it," he said. "I followed the directions exactly. But this," he waved one hand at his cauldron, "is not burn salve."

Hermione came over and looked down into the cauldron as well. Grasping one edge, she tilted it slightly and watched the waxy looking sludge slide across the bottom. "Definitely not burn salve," she agreed.

Colin heaved a sigh. "The same thing happened to me in class last week. I swear I did exactly what the directions said. I double-checked everything and I still ended up with something that more resembled potato soup than a Rejuvenating Tonic. The burdock roots just never dissolved properly." Colin sat back down on his work stool with a dejected thump. "It's hopeless. I'm going to fail and my mum is going to kill me."

Hermione wasn't paying any attention to Colin's whining as she stared down at the misbrewed salve. Reaching in, she scooped up a fingerful of the sludge and rubbed it thoughtfully between her fingers. She could feel the chopped plantain leaves and the slightly gritty feel of the lavender blossoms. She lifted her fingers up to her nose and took a delicate sniff. The rich smell of peppermint and thyme rose up to meet her.

Watching Hermione's behavior with a bemused expression, Colin leaned in Neville's direction. "I tell you, Neville, it's the robes. They're taking her over," Colin's stage whispered to Neville. "She gets more and more like him every lesson."

Neville clamped a hand over his mouth to muffle the noise of his laughter. It was even funnier since Neville tended to agree with Colin's assessment.

Hermione, who had been ignoring her companions' conversion, abruptly snapped her head up. "Colin, do you know how to make Rash Relief?"

Colin looked at her curiously. "Sure, it's a first year potion. It only has four ingredients."

Hermione put a classic Snape smirk on her face. "Brew it."

Colin shrugged. It was an easy enough potion. "Okay."

Hermione's smirk blossomed into a decidedly evil grin. "Brew it six times, Colin."

"Six?" Colin questioned in outrage. "Whatever for?"

Adopting her best Snape attitude, Hermione pinned him with a glamoured black stare. "Because I said to. Oh, and Mr. Creevey, five points from Gryffindor for lack of respect to your teacher."

Seeing Neville grinning behind Hermione, Colin wisely shut his mouth and set to work.

Hermione watched Colin intently as he made his third potion. The first attempt had provided a perfect Rash Relief potion. The second was as useless as his attempted burn salve. She'd watched him from start to finish each time, and Colin was right, he'd done everything correctly. He'd brewed his second attempt with no noticeable difference from his first, yet one worked, one didn't. She was missing a variable.

"Done," Colin called, as he plopped back down on his stool. He peered down into his cauldron before glancing back up at Hermione. "This one worked." Colin took in her hunched shoulders and tight expression. "Again?"

"Again, Colin," Hermione confirmed.

Colin heaved an exaggerated sigh but picked up his cutting blade without comment.

Neville, having finished his additional reading assigned to him by Hermione, wandered over to where Hermione was leaning against Snape's desk, watching Colin's progress. "Harry used to have this problem with his potions, you know."

Hermione frowned a bit at that. "He did? I don't remember that."

Neville shifted his heavy bookbag from his shoulder down to the floor and leaned back against Snape's desk as well. He always felt slightly wicked when he did things like that here in this Potions classroom. It was certainly nothing that he'd ever be able to do in the real Potions class, at least not if he didn't want Professor Snape to turn him into Potions ingredients. "It didn't happen often; and only in the beginning, first and second year. Not as much as Colin, but it would happen."

"What did he do?"

"Nothing, it just went away."

Hermione spared a glance towards Neville. "Nothing just goes away."

Neville shrugged before gathering up his things to leave. "What can I tell you; it did."

With Neville gone, Hermione refocused her attention on Colin and his brewing, and under her watchful eye Colin's fourth and fifth potions came out beautifully. The six was a dismal failure, once again failing to coalesce into a proper potion.

"Can I go now?" Coin was tired and it was showing in both the slump of his shoulders and the whine in his voice.

"Go on, Colin," Hermione said, waving a hand absently in his direction; her attention still centered on the six identical cauldrons lined up on the table in front of her.

Colin, sensing freedom, wasted no time before bolting towards the door, not even minding when she took five points off for running in her classroom.Hermione was tired, the extra time taken with Colin's potions had put her behind schedule, but she had one more thing she had to accomplish today before she could seek her well-earned rest. Harry would want the Cloak and Map back soon. She needed to get everything she could accomplished while she had the tools she needed. And putting off this last chore wasn't going to make it any easier.

Whispering "Mischief Managed," she folded up the now innocent looking Marauders' Map and stuffed it in her robe pocket. Using both Map and Invisibility Cloak together had gotten her safely past Professor McGonagall and Filch in their patrolling rounds. The bubble identifying Professor Snape, she had noted, was safely parked in Dumbledore's office, one less person she had to worry about catching her out this late past curfew.

Tickling the pear that opened the portrait door, Hermione slid into the kitchens. Making sure the door shut completely behind her, she turned around to find herself under the wide-eyed scrutiny of two dozen or so house-elves. The fact that she was still wearing Harry's Invisibility Cloak made the situation even stranger since it was obvious that they could see her.

They were, she also noted, staring at her in a decidedly unfriendly manner, or at least as unfriendly as a house-elf ever could. Except for Dobby, of course, who was looking at her like she was the most wonderful thing that he'd seen all day. Pulling the cloak off, she ran a hand through her hair to try to put some order to the messed up curls. Being the focus of all those eyes made Hermione rather self-conscious, but she ignored the stares, squared her shoulders and headed over to where Dobby was watching over a huge bubbling cauldron of what smelled like vegetable soup.

"Welcome, Miss Hermione, Harry Potter's friend. What can Dobby be getting for Miss?"

"I was hoping to get some help from the house-elves on a project I'm working on." Hermione took another look around the kitchen at all the faces that stared back at her in varying mixtures of fear and suspicion. It was obvious that her previous efforts with house-elf rights weren't going to work in her favor.

Dobby caught her watching his fellow elves. "Elves not understanding freedom. They is afraid. Afraid Miss is giving them clothes."

Hermione noticed several elves near them shudder as Dobby said the dreaded c-word. She wanted to . . . but no, she was here for Professor Snape. She needed to pick her battles and right now the professor was it. If she lost ground with the house-elves — and truthfully, had she ever really gained any? — it just couldn't be helped.

Deciding that the best method for her to use would be the quickest and easiest, Hermione climbed up onto the closest kitchen table. Dobby squeaked out a scandalized "Miss!" as she stood up.

"Everyone, please, can I have your attention for a moment," she said, pitching her voice to carry to the far corners of the great kitchen. "I am Hermione Granger. And while I don't know most of you, I understand that you all know me — by both name and reputation. I've come here today to ask for your help, help that only the house-elves can provide. I know that our relationship in the past hasn't been all that great, and because of that, I don't really have much right to ask for your assistance. But I'm going to ask anyway." Hermione sighed. She really didn't want to say this next part. "In fact, I need your help so much that I'm willing to make a deal with you. If you will agree to help me, I PROMISE I will not attempt to provide clothing to any Hogwarts house-elf unless specifically asked to do so by that elf as a means to release them from service. No more hidden clothes, no more knitted elf hats, no more socks."

Officially renouncing her desire to see all the house-elves properly clothed had a profound effect on the room. From her vantage point atop of the trestle table, she could see the ripple of excitement her words had caused as it spread through the gathered crowd. She had a feeling that within minutes every elf in Hogwarts would know of her capitulation.

Climbing down from the table, Hermione was greeted with the first taste of what her surrender meant. She was no sooner on the ground than a dozen elves were clustered around her –— elves that a minute earlier wouldn't have come within 10 feet of her — offering tea, pumpkin juice, biscuits, a nice slice of chocolate cake, anything she could possibly want, even a chair for the gracious Miss.

With the efficiency they were legendary for, Hermione quickly found herself seated at the table with a cup of hot chamomile tea and a plate of her favorite lemon biscuits, while anxious eyes watched her for approval.

Lifting a biscuit, she bit into it and made a great show of savoring the taste. Finishing it, she took a small sip of tea, perfectly sweetened with just the right amount of honey, exactly as she liked it. "This is excellent," she said. "I thank you all." A dozen sighs of pleasure answered her polite words.

"What does Miss want with house-elves?" The voice, as it carried from the back of the crowd, was old and creaky.

The small group of elves immediately around Hermione broke apart revealing an aged house-elf wearing a large, faded green towel wrapped toga-like around its skinny body.

Hermione had the impression of great age, a feeling that was enhanced when the other elves backed away in obvious deference. Manners drilled into her since she was a child kicked in and Hermione stood. "Won't you please sit down?" she offered, gesturing to the table and its other chair. Around her she heard various gasps and whispered comments — "Miss asking Lonny to sit," "Miss treating Lonny as equal."

"Young Miss is kind to elves," the old house elf said, though in such a way that Hermione got the distinct impression that wasn't necessarily a good thing.

Well, they were just going to have to get over it because she wasn't going to give up being polite. "The house-elves," she said, "work very hard with little appreciation. It costs me nothing to be polite and kind."

The old elf shook its head, a faint look of disapproval on its wrinkled face. "Not doing for appreciation or money or clothes." He gave her a pointed look, "Is honor in serving."

Hermione had doubts about that, especially when those served treated the servants with contempt and abuse. She couldn't help her own bias from creeping into her response. "It is an honor to serve when those who are served do not abuse the privilege gifted to them."

Again there was a shake of a winkled old head. "Young Miss is seeing more than witch or wizard for long time, but Miss not understanding what Miss sees. When mother caring for sick child, is she needing appreciation? When father showing child how to hold wand first time, showing for money?"

Hermione didn't know how to answer that. Actually, she'd never really thought about it that way. The elf was suggesting a reason for their servitude that was vastly different from anything she'd expected. "I don't know," she answered truthfully.

Now she got a nod of approval. "Young Miss thinks. Is what young Miss does." Topic seemly at a close, it snapped its fingers and a small, low stool appeared behind it. Gathering its towel-toga up with great dignity, the elf sat down. "How is Lonny and house-elves to help Miss?"

Remembering the listening device she'd found in the library and her thoughts about how the elves and pictures probably reported directly to the Headmaster, Hermione was careful about what she said. It wasn't that her actions were confidential or that she thought the Headmaster would disapprove of them, but, for some reason, she felt that it would be best if kept a secret. "First, I'd like to ask that you keep this quiet — just between us. It's not dangerous or illegal," she was quick to point out, "but I'd like to keep what I'm doing anonymous from everyone."

The previous look of disapproval came back. "Elves not allowing young Misses and Masters harm. Elves not playing tricks."

Hermione realized that the head elf probably thought she wanted their assistance to play some kind of prank on another student. They probably got requests to help with those sorts of things a lot, especially with their ability to move about the castle unseen. "I mean no harm to anyone. In fact, I'm trying to . . . well, I guess you could say I'm trying to fix a harm that I see happening." It was then that Hermione was hit with sudden inspiration. "I wish to serve," she said quietly and with as much sincerity as she could muster.

Around her, the elves that had returned to their kitchen chores stopped. Whispers quickly rose up around her again.

Wise old eyes studied her shrewdly, giving Hermione the weird sensation that she was seated with the house-elf version of Dumbledore. "Young Miss wishing to serve?"

Nodding her head slowly, Hermione answered affirmatively. "Professor Snape is sick." She frowned slightly, "Or maybe not sick. I'm not sure. But he isn't sleeping and he isn't eating right. I want to help him, but I don't know exactly how yet. I do know that I can't help him without your assistance. And if I do help him, he can't know." Going back to what the elf had said earlier, she continued, "He won't appreciate my help" — that's the truth a snide part of her thought — "and he certainly won't pay me. And somehow I don't see Professor Snape ever offering me clothes." Although he did give her his teaching robes that night in the hallway, but the elves didn't need to know that, as it would just make things harder to explain.

Lonny blinked huge eyes and reached up to tug on one wrinkled bat-like ear. "Does young Miss not think elves doing their job for Master of Potions?"

Hermione, having visions of house elves ironing their ears en masse, was quick to jump in. "No!" she said. "I think the house-elves are doing a wonderful job. You always do a wonderful job. It's just that Professor Snape is" — she had to pick her words carefully here — "more difficult to take care of than others." That sentiment sounded rather lame, and very much understated even to her, but Lonny seemed to agree with her.

"And young Miss is wishing to serve Master of Potions?"

"Yes."

Lonny reached up and pulled on his? — her? — its? ear again. Turning to the side, it said firmly, "Rink." A few seconds later a house-elf appeared beside Lonny with a faint pop.

The elf, whose name Hermione guessed was Rink, bobbed low in a bow to Lonny before bestowing another on Hermione.

Lonny pointed a long finger at Rink. "Rink serving Master of Potions in all things."

Hermione felt a thrill of excitement go through her. Rink was just the elf she needed to talk with.

"Young Miss," Lonny said to Rink, "thinking Master of Potions not well. Young Miss wishing to serve the Master. Young Miss saying Master not sleeping or eating."

Rink's small shoulders along with his ears slumped in abject misery. Hermione was horrified to see tears well up its eyes. "Rink is sorry. Rink will stuff head in oven. Rink will iron ears." The elf gave a large sob of despair before darting to the table where Hermione sat. Before she could react, Rink bashed his head down against the tabletop. "Rink has failed Master of Potions," the little elf wailed loudly before again bringing his head down hard again against the wooden table. "Rink must be punished."

As stunned as she was, Hermione was still up and out of her chair before Rink could bring his head down on the table for a third time. She wrapped her arms around the elf's body in order to prevent further damage. With Rink trying to get close to the table and Hermione trying to get them away from the table, it wasn't long before they both hit the floor in a tangle of arms and legs. Rink, using his new proximity to the ground, now tried to beat his head against the flagstone floor. Hermione tightened her hold on the elf and rolled onto her back holding the elf tightly against her middle. "Stop that immediately!" she yelled. Either he wasn't listening or didn't hear her because small, hard-soled bare feet continued to kick at her shins as he struggled.

"Rink, you is hurting young Miss." At Lonny's disapproving words, Rink immediately stilled.

Hoping to head off another round of self-recriminations and punishment, Hermione kept her arms tight around Rink as she said, "I'm not hurt, just a little winded. There is no harm done." Cautiously she released her arms, but Rink appeared to have calmed down. Sitting up, she gently lifted him from her lap.

Lonny was looking at Rink with a stern expression that reminded Hermione of a disappointed Dumbledore. "Young Miss is saying right about Master of Potions?" Lonny asked.

Rink nodded, tears welling up in his eyes again, although thankfully he didn't seem inclined towards self-violence. "Rink is seeing plate after meals. Master eats some, but not eating all. Rink is leaving tea and Master's favorite biscuits in rooms. When Rink returns, tea is being cold and biscuits untouched."

"Rink, what about his sleeping habits?" Hermione asked gently.

Rink's ears drooped further down in obvious dejection. "Rink seeing many, many nights where Master not sleeping or sleeping little." Rink twisted his hands together. "Rink shouldn't say. Master will be most angry."

Lonny indicated Hermione. "Young Miss wishing to serve Master of Potions. Young Miss knows Master unhappy. Tell what Rink knows."

Rink's voice lowered. "When Master sleeps, Master cries out. Many dark dreams Master has."

 

Ch 8 Being Noticed

 

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