Chapter 10 — Explanations

Scheduling the Potions study class with Neville and Colin immediately after dinner meant that by the time they finished most students were already in their common rooms for the evening. Hermione had specifically chosen that time to ensure they would be both uninterrupted and less likely to be seen by curious fellow students. Now, only that lateness of hour allowed Hermione to get as far as she did before being noticed. Being completely wrapped up in the triumph of her discovery, she had practically flown through the hallways of Hogwarts, intent only on reaching her goal of Professor Snape's office. The surety of her knowledge burned within her and lent speed to her steps. She was not focusing on the halls around her, nor was she particularly looking where she was going, which is how Hermione found herself in front of an astonished-looking Professor Vector.

It was the look of total shock on her Arithmancy teacher's face that clued Hermione in that something was wrong. Thinking she had something on her clothes, Hermione glanced down at herself to try and figure out what had stunned her teacher to such an extent. She was horrified to see she was still dressed as Professor Snape, from the tips of her black, chunky-heeled boots to the black curls that swung into her line of sight as she looked down. Oh, God!

"Professor Vector . . .I can . . . please don't . . . Professor Snape . . . not . . . " She was babbling, a dozen different thoughts all trying to get out of her mouth at once. I can explain. Please don't tell Professor Snape. It's not what it looks like. Yet none of them were making it past a few disjointed words.

Vector was still staring at her like she'd never seen Hermione before, a reaction that was making her more nervous with each passing second and causing the words to tumble from her mouth even faster.

Abruptly, Professor Vector seemed to snap out of her daze. "Come with me, Miss Granger," she said, interrupting Hermione mid-stream.

Heart pounding, Hermione obediently followed along as her professor slipped into one of the old classrooms that lined the hallway. Once inside with the door firmly shut, Vector said, "Put your papers down." When Hermione complied, Vector then pointed towards the middle of the room. "Stand," she ordered.

Without a word, Hermione followed her instructions.

Once in place, Hermione tried to explain. "Please, Profes-"

Vector raised a hand, cutting her off. Hermione's nervousness hit new heights as her professor began to slowly circle around her.

"Remarkable. Absolutely remarkable. The level of detail in the Glamour . . . you've even got it down to the level of the engravings on the buttons."

Hermione's nervousness became confusion. Professor Vector didn't sound angry. It sounded, almost, as if her teacher were impressed.

On Vector's next circuit, she asked, "Has Professor Flitwick seen this?"

That brought forth an emphatic, "No!" The very thought of another teacher being aware of her dressed like this made the sick feeling in the pit of Hermione's stomach increase ten-fold.

Vector, however, didn't seem to understand Hermione's horror at the question. She instead shook her head in a regretful manner. "Shame. He'd be quite impressed." Stopping her circling when she stood in front of Hermione once again, she added with a more serious expression, "Although he'd be the only one impressed, I'm afraid. Do you have death wish of some sort?"

Hermione blanched. "Please Professor, let me explain. It's not what you think. It not what he would think either, if he saw me like this." There was no need to explain who the 'he' in question was.

Pulling out her wand, she voiced the Glamour's reversal spell, tapping her wand lightly on the top of her head, then on her closed eyelids, and finally on her chest as she did so.

Once again, she heard Vector murmur a quiet, "Remarkable."

At one time, hearing the admiration in a teacher's voice at a spell she created would have sent a feeling of pride through Hermione. Now, though, she felt more like she wanted to throw up. She certainly wasn't feeling very remarkable at the moment. Terrified was a more accurate description. If Professor Vector decided to tell Professor Snape . . . oh, God.

Hermione's vision swam and black spots floated before her eyes. "I think I need to sit down." Stumbling slightly, she settled into an old desk chair, her face cradled in the palms of her upturned hands.

She was vaguely aware of Vector still being in the room with her, but her mind was now firmly showing her the disaster that would have occurred had she made it down to Professor Snape's office dressed as him. A disaster that could still happen if Professor Vector decided to march her down to the dungeons without letting her explain. Everything would be ruined. She knew with absolute certainty that, under these circumstances, Professor Snape would never believe she wasn't mocking him or setting him up for some type of ridicule. The sick feeling within her stomach twisted again at the thought that he might think that she would attempt to humiliate him somehow.

"You, Miss Granger, look as if you could use a spot of tea. Come to think of it, now that I've seen what Severus Snape would look like as a woman, I think I need a spot of tea, as well."

Hermione made a noise of assent but didn't raise her face from her hands.

Vector turned away from Hermione. "Anila," she said loudly to the empty air. A moment later, a muted pop announced the arrival of a house-elf.

"Rink is sorry, Mistress. Anila cannot serve. Rink will serve in Anila's place. How can Rink serve the honored Mistress?"

At the house-elf's words, Hermione's head shot up to stare in horror at Rink. Rink served Professor Snape. Why was he here? Was Rink about to give away even more of her secrets?

Rink, however, ignored Hermione, his gaze focused solely on the Arithmancy teacher.

"Please bring us a pot of tea, Rink."

Rink bowed and disappeared only to return a minute later carrying a tray. In addition to the requested tea, a small selection of biscuits and petit fours adorned a small plate.

Feeling too sick to eat, Hermione concentrated on sipping the tea that Professor Vector had poured for her. Looking up, she found Vector eyeing her with a speculative gleam in her blue eyes that made Hermione even more nervous. Tightening her fingers around the warmth of her china cup, Hermione took a deep breath before she began to try to explain. "This isn't what it looks like, Professor. I am leading an outside Potions study group with some students that are having difficulty with Potions." In an attempt to reassure the other professor of her good intentions, she quicly added, "Professor Snape is aware that I'm helping some students."

"But I take it he doesn't know about your attire?"

Hermione shook her head. "No, ma'am. But it wasn't done to make fun of Professor Snape. I wouldn't do that, Professor." Hermione's gaze drifted back down to her teacup where she studied the black flecks of tea leaves floating in the bottom. "Not to him," she added softly. Her attention focused on her cup, Hermione missed Professor Vector's raised eyebrows at her words.

"You see, some of the students, well, they are afraid of Professor Snape. Just the sight of him terrifies them." Raising her head back up, she continued. "I've been dressing and acting like him in my study sessions. That way when they deal with me, they see him."

Vector nodded thoughtfully. "And when they deal with Professor Snape," she said, completing the thought, "they see you and are not as afraid. Clever."

Hermione ducked her head, not sure if she was supposed to respond to that. Fortunately, Vector didn't seem to expect one, but instead asked another question. "Miss Granger, I'm going to take it that wandering the hallways dressed as you were was not your intent?"

Hermione felt her cheeks heat from her flush of embarrassment. "No, Professor, that was not my intent." She ran a finger around the lip of the teacup in her hand. "Professor Snape gave me a puzzle to work on. He called it a challenge and gave me a week's deadline. I've been working on it all week, and tomorrow is my last day. Just moments ago I figured out the solution. I was so intent on getting to Professor Snape to share what I'd found that I . . . well, I wasn't thinking about anything else."

The words were no sooner out of her mouth, when she brought the heel of her hand up to smack against her forehead. "Stupid," she exclaimed. "How could I have been so stupid?"

Vector, Hermione noted, was looking at her oddly again, so Hermione tried to explain. "I've been a complete dunderhead. The whole point of Professor Snape's challenge was to get me to think. I figured out the problem, but then I stopped thinking and just reacted. I figured out the puzzle but failed the test."

Vector gave a small chuckle. "I think maybe you are being a little hard on yourself, Hermione. The excitement of discovery often leads to a little rash behavior."

At another time and place, Hermione would have leapt at the understanding and absolution Vector was offering. Hermione, though, was still ready to metaphorically kick herself. "I don't think so, Professor, at least not when I'm dressed in a manner that could potentially hurt Professor Snape."

Hermione had spent so much of her time trying to come up with ways to protect, nurture and make Professor Snape's life better that she didn't realize how odd her statement sounded coming from a student, a Gryffindor student at that.

Vector, however, did notice, though she did not say anything. Instead, she addressed the original issue of Hermione's Snape-based attire. "Miss Granger, it's late and close to curfew. You said that Professor Snape gave you until tomorrow?" At Hermione's nod, she continued. "Then tomorrow will be soon enough. I won't take points since your intent was not to harm, but I think that it is better that this evening, you return to your common room."

Hermione gave her a grateful smile. "Yes, ma'am. Thank you." Gathering up her notes again, Hermione let herself out of the classroom.

Behind her Vector began a frantic search through her pockets until she came up with a folded scrap of parchment and her favorite Muggle vice — a much-loved, and chewed-upon, pencil. With focused concentration, Miranda started making Arithmantic notations on her piece of parchment. Her formulas and numbers bleeding into each other as she attempted to squeeze as many of her thoughts onto the paper as possible. Like any good theorist, she could picture the basic equations in her head and see the visual representations of those equations.

Miranda was well aware of what the excitement of sudden discovery felt like. It felt like a number that made an equation balance. It felt like perfect symmetry. It felt like a statistical model that answered every question. It felt like suddenly understanding, without knowing how or why, that Hermione Granger would play an important role in the coming confrontation.

It felt good.

Notes jotted down, she stuffed parchment and pencil back into her robe pocket. She needed to get back to her workroom. She had equations to flesh out and new numbers to run.Hermione had slept poorly after Professor Vector sent her back to her common room and to bed. Her body's restless energy and her mind's continual circling to both her solution and her stupidity in walking out dressed as Professor Granger-Snape kept her from peaceful dreams. But tired or not, she had to admit that the distancing had done her good. Her thoughts were more ordered and focused now. Even beyond the whole clothes issue, if she'd seen the Potions professor last night, she would have fumbled her words and explanation, and he would have been less than impressed.

She wanted to impress him. But even more than that, she wanted him to really see her and think her worthy of his regard.

She was calm. She was confident. She was ready.

When the door to Professor Snape's office abruptly opened, she realized that maybe she wasn't as ready as she thought. She really wasn't ready when he arched a raven-black brow and asked if she was planning to guard his door with the same devotion as the gargoyle guarded the Headmaster's.

And ready or not, Hermione found herself, once again, ensconced in that surprisingly comfortable chair across from Professor Snape's desk while he stared at her.

When it looked like he was simply going to stare at her, she decided to start the conversation. "I know why all the potions failed."

Again that black brow swept up. "Do tell, Miss Granger."

"They aren't potions. That's the answer to your riddle: when is a potion not a potion? The answer is when it is NOT a potion. It's a collection of potions ingredients that never became a potion."

She paused, trying to gauge his reaction. She knew she was right this time, but still the smallest of doubts nibbled at her, nibbles that were quickly becoming bites at Professor Snape's impassive expression.

She gave a small start when he finally inclined his head in acknowledgement. "Continue."

At that single word a grin spread across her face and small shiver of barely contained excitement worked its way down her spine causing her to give a small hop where she sat.

In tones as dry as the Sahara, he asked, "Should I give you a few moments to get the giddiness out of your system?"

"No sir," she responded, the grin on her face contradiction her words. "Well, maybe, sir," she said, laughter creeping into her words.

Professor Snape was frowning at her. Taking a deep breath, she held it for a moment before letting it out. Schooling her face into more serious lines, she gave him a small smile. "My apologies, sir. I'm good now."

Deciding that getting on with her explanation was the wisest course, Hermione rifled through her documents, looking for her chart of students and potions. Rising from her chair she placed the parchment on Snape's desk so he could see it.

"Well, you must know that I had only the one example of someone's potion not coming out correct." Remembering just in time that she had secrets to keep, she said, "I had confirmation that someone else had the same issue, but that he grew out of it." She shook her head. "I think that is what threw me — the person currently having the problem wasn't growing out of it. I'd tried the library, but I didn't even have a point to begin looking for the answer. That's when I came to you."

She flashed her teacher another small smile before turning back to the paper. "It took me a while before I found the right track."

"Which was?"

Caught up in her discovery, she thought nothing of leaning across the desk surface to point to elements of her chart as she talked. "I ended up polling the other houses. I thought that maybe there would be some kind of pattern or clue. If maybe everyone was in Gryffindor, or if it was always a specific potion that went awry." She pointed down to a particular column. "You can see the students polled here, crossed referenced by House and potion. It didn't make much sense until I realized that everyone affected was Muggle-born, or in Harry's case, had been raised by Muggles. Somehow they aren't making potions. That's what's wrong. The results are no different than if a Muggle were to mix the ingredients together. That is the ultimate answer to your riddle — the magic is missing."

That earned a small nod from her professor. "Correct, Miss Granger." His face twisted as if he'd tasted something sour. "While it pains me to do so, I believe that the agreed upon number between us, was seventy-five points to Gryffindor."

She registered his words, but waved them off with an unconscious movement of her hand. She was on the cusp of learning something larger and the mere thought of points was inconsequential to the knowledge before her. Bottom lip pulled between her teeth, she wondered if he would explain a few of her other questions or dismiss her.

She barely registered his somewhat startled blink at her dismissal of the points. But really, what good were points compared to understanding? She was much more concerned with whether or not he'd continue talking with her.

"Ask, Miss Granger?" The words with said with an exasperated sigh. "And sit back down."

She made haste to take her seat again. "Ask, sir?" Even she could hear the hopeful undertones in her voice.

Professor Snape settled back in his chair with a small roll of his eyes. "You have additional questions you wish to ask." He raised a finger before she could respond. "Don't deny it, girl. You always have additional questions," he added with a smirk. "I am feeling magnanimous at the moment. I suggest you take advantage of the situation before I toss you out."

Uncertain as to what had precipitated her good fortune, Hermione nevertheless leapt to take full advantage of the question-asking bounty just gifted to her. Eyes gleaming with excitement she sat forward in her chair. "The magic is missing, which is causing the problem. The part I don't understand is why? Or why some people are affected and other aren't or why most, but not all, seem to grow out of it by their fourth year."

"Do you remember our discussion concerning Affinity?"

"Yes, sir."

"What did I tell you then about your lack of knowledge concerning the wizarding world?"

Not quite seeing what their previous discussion had to do with potion making, Hermione nevertheless recited back to him his words regarding Affinity. "That because I wasn't raised in the wizarding world, there would always be things that I wouldn't know until they were explained to me."

"Correct. The wizarding world makes assumptions that you understand the way some things work because it is knowledge that everyone knows — so common that no additional explanation is required."

She scooted a little closer to the edge of her seat. "But we Muggle-borns are missing something here. Something important."

The professor nodded gravely. "So, tell me, Miss Granger, you have deduced when a potion is not a potion. But what of the opposite situation? What makes a potion? How is the magic introduced?"

"I -" Hermione stopped as she abruptly realized she didn't know. Slowly, she began again, her tone thoughtful and her eyes downcast as she sought to unravel the puzzle. "I don't know. I've always just followed the instructions. I don't think I've ever consciously tried to put magic into something I was brewing." She looked up then, still following the thought. "But there is more to it than that. A Muggle could follow the same instructions, but they wouldn't create a potion." She paused again, once again biting at her lower lip as she worked to put the pieces together, to think, as this man wanted her to. "On our first day of Potions class, you said there would be no foolish wand-waving in your class."

"I did."

"But for the Muggle-borns, that is all we've been taught. Magic is done with wands. No one has ever mentioned any other way to perform magic. Some people get it right unconsciously. I am infusing my potion with my magic when I brew, but even I don't know how I'm doing it. It's an accident that my potions have worked so far. I could have been just like the others. I don't know what it is I'm doing. I don't know how I'm infusing my potions with magic."

A scowl graced the Potions master's face. "Yes, a serious lack in the curriculum that I will be addressing."

"But, how?" she persisted.

Exasperation was starting to seep into his words. "But how, Miss Granger? How what?"

Words seemed to tumble out of her in her haste to speak before he lost all patience with her. "Magic with a wand is something Muggle-borns can understand. You can see the wand movements and hear the incantation. How do you teach someone how to infuse a potion with magic when there is nothing to see?

At the aggrieved expression that flashed across Professor Snape's face, Hermione felt sure that she had crossed the delicate line of truce between them. While she had not completely understood his motivations in giving her this challenge or in allowing her to regain her lost points, she had understood that he was giving her an amount of respect that was not usually extended to mere students.

Feeling that she'd just found the edge of his tolerance, she quickly dropped her eyes and backpedaled. "Forgive me, sir. I didn't mean to pester you."

He harrumphed. "Yes, you did."

The words were stark and rather harsh, but they were delivered in a wry note of amusement that lifted her dampened spirit.

"Stand up, Miss Granger."

Curious as to what he planned, she did as directed and found herself facing eleven inches of polished ebony wand, held in the firm grip of a man with a less than stellar past and reputation. Feeling like she was again facing a test, she smiled at the man standing across from her. She did not ask what he intended, nor what spell he was about to cast on her. Instead she verbally acknowledged the growing belief in him that had been building since she began her S.N.O.R.T. campaign. "Whenever you are ready, Professor."

He narrowed his eyes at her for a moment and then cast his spell. "Vere Veneficus."

The wand movements, she noticed, were intricate and stylized, involving both wrist and finger movements. Her mind automatically translated the words, her Latin rough but serviceable. With the spell, he named her Real Witch, or maybe True Witch.

Taking a moment to assess herself, Hermione decided she didn't feel any different. Looking down, she let out a small gasp as she realized she looked decidedly different. She was glowing. Spots of luminous color adorned her body. The lowest glowing spot was a few inches below her navel, the next slightly higher and seemed to emanate from her upper stomach, right below her breasts, the third centered over her heart. She could just catch a glimpse of a glow coming from her throat. She twisted slight to look behind her and was not surprised to see another glowing spot over her lower back.

Chakra points. Professor Snape's spell had illuminated the chakra points, or energy nodes, on her body. She knew, even though she couldn't see them, that two other spots of glowing color were centered over her brow and the top of her head. She also noticed that from each node highlighted by the spell, a twisting line of energy snaked out and flowed down her arm to center in the palm of her wand hand. The glow there pulsed in time with her heartbeat.

"Take out your wand and cast a spell, Miss Granger."

Eager to see what the lines of power would do, she wasted no time in pulling out her wand. Pointing it at the chair, she gave the correct swish and flick and said, "Wingardum Leviosa." The chair, in response to her magic command, rose to hover two feet above the ground. Hermione, however, wasn't paying any attention to the chair. She was concentrated only the glowing chakra points and the associated lines of power that led down to her wand hand. She could see the magic. It pulsed and twisted and flowed down her arm and into her wand. Colors — red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple and silver — flashed and intermingled as she held the chair aloft.

Mesmerized by this visual representation of her magic, Hermione absently lowered the chair and terminated the spell, completely enthralled at how the visual representation of her magic changed and moved. The smile she turned on Professor Snape felt as if it extended from ear to ear. "That was beautiful," she breathed softly.

Snape indicated her vacated seat, and she promptly sat back down, with her attention once again focused on him. "That, Miss Granger, is how I will show the Muggle-born students where they are going wrong. It is a spell that most purebloods cast on their offspring at the first signs of their emerging powers. It gives the nascent witch or wizard a visual representation of their magic." He nodded to her still-glowing wand hand. "It also makes the idea of infusing the ingredients you are preparing, and the potion you are brewing with your magic, a fairly easy concept to grasp."

"Brilliant." Hermione was smiling again and couldn't seem to control it. She thought Professor Snape looked rather shocked at her assessment, but it was hard to tell as his expression slid from the slightly less guarded one he had been wearing, back to full Potions master impassivity.

"Quite," he answered, smooth tones rolling over her. "I must inform you that the spell can not be canceled but must wear off on its own. That should be in approximately two hours. I would suggest you use the time during which it is still active to explore the magic within you."

Hearing the unvoiced dismissal, Hermione rose to her feet and gathered her documents. Stopped at the door to his office, she turned and gave him another bright smile. "Thank you, sir."

He gave her a slight nod before shutting the door behind her.

With her back to the door, Hermione finally let the triumph she felt bubble up from inside of her. At the sound of her ringing laughter echoing off the stone walls, though, she quickly clamped a hand over her mouth. It certainly wouldn't do to annoy her professor into taking back those seventy-five points.

Catching sight of her glowing middle, she let one lone little giggle escape. She had some experimenting to do.Severus closed the door behind Miss Granger. Three inches of aged oak were not enough to completely muffle the peal of laughter that rang out from the other side. He had no doubts about the source of her merriment. She'd just won a major victory here. She'd both answered his challenge and earned Gryffindor seventy-five points from him. Heading back to his desk and his lesson plans, he shook his head. He didn't think he'd ever awarded Gryffindor that many points in a month, much less in a single day.

Picking up his quill, he twisted it idly between his fingertips remembering Miss Granger's casual dismissal of the points. He'd been momentarily surprised at that. There were always those students who outgrew the points system but he had not pegged Miss Granger as being one with her desire for order and structure. He did wonder how she would explain the sudden point jump though, if she explained at all. An outraged MInerva had never accosted him so he'd known that Miss Granger had neither complained about nor explained the original seventy-five points loss. If Minerva never came to gloat about the point acquisition, then he would know if the girl was continuing to keep her silence.

Not that he ultimately cared one way or another. House points were, after all, just one more way to control the little blighters and annoy Minerva. He had no doubt that Gryffindor would find a way to way to win the House Cup this year as it had for the last five. He grimaced slightly. Albus, he knew, would see to that. Merlin forbid, that Potter exit Hogwarts without Gryffindor winning. His grimace turned into silent snarl. And they had the nerve to say he was biased in his awarding of points.

Letting out a huff of breath, he let the anger go. Railing against the inevitable would get him nowhere.

Raising the quill he brushed the feathered tip rhythmically against his jaw as he thought about the girl that had just left his office. He'd been surprised, and yet not surprised, that she had figured out the problem with the Muggle-born students.

He would have to remember to discuss that situation with Albus. For something so blindingly simple to have occurred for so long . . . it was simply inexcusable. Albus would need to speak with the Headmasters of the other magical schools to ensure they understood the nature of the problem. Durmstrang enrolled no Muggle-borns but he knew both Beauxbatons and the Salem Academy followed more open policies.

Yes, Miss Granger continued to both intrigue and amuse him. He'd always enjoyed a good puzzle. She was proving to be very puzzling, indeed.For the next week Hermione broke out in that same wide grin every time she saw a student glowing with the Vere Veneficus spell. Professor Snape had been true to his word and had taken care of the problem. Every one of his Potions students from first up to seventh year had the spell cast at them. The pureblooded and half-blooded students shrugged and went on with their day, but the effect on the Muggle-borns was nothing less that amazing.

Colin brought her reports from those Muggle-born students that he had originally interviewed. All of them now understood where they were going wrong in their potions.

And in not one class did Professor Snape offer an explanation for his use of the spell. He took no credit, he sought no praise, nor did his demeanor of unfeeling, uncaring, greasy git change one iota.

Hermione watched it all. At the end of the week, she redoubled her efforts at finding a way to help Professor Snape. She was more convinced than ever that he did indeed deserve everything she could do to respect, help and protect him.Hermione glanced at her watch and yawned. It was almost two o'clock in the morning. Doing a quick scan of the Marauders' Map, she noted that Professor Dumbledore had finally gone to bed. Professor Snape's footsteps, however, were still moving.

Did the man never sleep? Stifling another yawn, Hermione watched as Professor Snape's footsteps bypassed the turn that would lead him down into the dungeons, and instead took the corridor that led towards the trophy room and Hufflepuff territory. She now understood where Professor Snape had gained the reputation for being a vampire. She'd always thought it was the pale skin and all-black clothing. Hermione was now convinced it was because the man didn't sleep at night. Ever. It was insomnia taken to an extreme. She had no idea how Professor Snape even functioned on as little sleep as he seemed to get.

Stretching her arms up over her head, Hermione felt her spine crack and pop as she stretched out the hours of bad posture. Letting out another big yawn, she stacked up the various books she had been flipping through before pushing them down to the end of her bed.

Professor Snape had told her that the answer to Colin's problem could not be found in a book. She had believed him. That didn't mean that her other problems couldn't be solved with research. She was reading up on insomnia, sleeping potions, and dreaming spells. Unfortunately, she wasn't having much luck.

Truth be told, she was tired of thinking. She was tired of trying to think. Mostly though, she was just tired. Grabbing her wand, she tapped the map and said, "Mischief Managed." Once it was again looking like a blank piece of parchment, she carefully folded it and stored it under the stack of books at the end of her bed. She felt quite in the knowledge that no one but she would ever pick up Poisoned Apples, Glass Coffins and Spindles: Traditional Sleeping Spells Through the Ages.

She really had to quit watching Professor Snape through the Map. Each night her curiosity propelled her to watch him a little longer until she was now getting only a few more hours of sleep than he was. Hermione shifted her shoulder to burrow under the cover of her soft down comforter. Considering she had nearly fallen asleep in Professor Flitwick's class that afternoon, she decided that tomorrow night she would not open the Map, and she would, instead, get a full night's sleep. If she didn't, she was afraid that one morning she would fall asleep in her porridge in the Great Hall.

She let out a deep breath and sank even further into her soft sheets. As sleep closed in on her, Hermione spared one last thought for Professor Snape, who was, even now, still walking the corridors of the school. It was such a shame that the poor man was denied the absolute joy of a good sleep.

She could almost hear Morpheus calling her name, pulling her gently into the realm of dreams. It was, therefore, completely understandable that she panicked as a sudden, heavy weight landed forcibly across her middle, pinning her beneath the covers. Opening her eyes to see a shadowed shape moving above her, Hermione let out a startled scream. Reacting instinctively, she fought to throw off both the covers and the weight pinning her down while grabbing for her wand. Feeling her hand close against cool wood, Hermione yelled "Lumos," and found herself eyeball to blinking eyeball with Rink.

From outside the closed bed curtains, the sleep-slurred voice of Lavender Brown broke the mutual stare. "'Ermione. S'all right?"

Seeing Rink about to say something, Hermione tackled the little elf, clamping her hand down over his mouth before he could speak. "Fine, Lavender. Nightmare. Go back to sleep."

"O . . . kay," came the reply, broken by a yawn.

Sleepiness now burned away in the rush of fear-induced adrenaline, Hermione cast a quick silencing spell around her bed while still keeping her other hand clamped tight over Rink's mouth. Forgetting for a moment the customary house-elf reaction to perceived disapproval, Hermione hissed, "Rink, what are you doing here?"

She immediately regretted her harsh tone as Rink's eyes welled up with tears. Oh, for Heaven's sake!

Gentling her voice, she awkwardly patted Rink on one bony shoulder. "Don't do that, Rink. I didn't mean to yell at you. You just scared me. I wasn't expecting you."

Rink, however, was having none of her apology, as large tears began rolling down his face. When he began to rock back and forth and keen in a voice that could shatter glass, Hermione was ever so grateful that she had put up the silencing spell.

"Rink is a bad elf. Rink has scared the Young Miss. Rink must be punished."

Tired, cranky, and so not prepared to deal with house-elf hysterics, Hermione did something that, under normal circumstances, she would never have even considered. Desperate times, though, called for desperate measures.

Borrowing the Potions master's more exasperated tones, Hermione interrupted Rink's litany of his faults. "Rink, if you are punished will you stop?"

At the elf's ear-flapping nod, Hermione pulled her pillow around from behind her. Smoothing the cotton fabric that covered the down-filled pillow, she placed it directly in front of Rink. "Here," she said. "Beat your head against this three times."

Rink stared at her for a moment and then completed his punishment.

Rubbing wearily at her eyes, she shifted herself to sit cross-legged under the covers. "Now that that is out of the way, why are you here?"

Still snuffling a bit, Rink favored Hermione with a big grin. "Rink has done as Hermy asks."

Hermy? Did she even want to know? Curiosity won out in the end, as it usually did. "Hermy?" she asked.

Rink nodded solemnly. "Miss wishes to serve as a house-elf. Hermione," Rink said, taking care to say her name very carefully and with great precision, "is not a house-elf name. Hermy is a good elf name. Hermy is a name to be proud of. Hermione is Young Miss. Hermy serves the Master of Potions with Rink."

Well, she thought, it wasn't any worse than 'Mione or Herms or Her-mo-ninny.

Rink snapped his fingers and a scroll of parchment appeared in his hand. "Rink has taken notes on Master of Potions' food and drink as Hermy has asked." Rink shook his head sadly. "Master is not eating as Master should. Rink has failed Master of Potions." With great care, Rink presented the scroll to Hermione. "Hermy will help the Master, and Rink will help Hermy."

Presented with that kind of faith, Hermione mentally threw up her hands in defeat. Who needed sleep anyway? Unrolling the scroll, she brightened the Lumos spell to give them more light. "Okay, Rink, show me what you've got."With a sigh Hermione put her forehead down on the cool wood of the library table, her hair falling down around her face to shield her within a curly brown waterfall. Rink's information on Professor Snape's eating habits was telling but she still had no idea on how to tackle that problem. Instead she'd turned to his insomnia. Now after weeks of diligent searching,she'd found nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. She couldn't help feeling that it was an affront to her, the Hogwarts library, and to the universe in general. She sighed again. Okay, maybe not the whole universe, but definitely her small corner of it.

She'd looked in every book she could think of and spent a considerable amount of time combing through magical references searching for the kind of spell she wanted. She'd found lots of spells and charms and even potions that put a person to sleep, everything from Sleeping Beauty's curse to trapping a dreamer in a never-ending nightmare. Nothing came close to what she wanted though.

Granted, she wasn't sure herself of exactly what she wanted, she just knew that the final product had to meet certain criteria. It had to be gentle and easily broken by the sleeper. She didn't want to trap her professor in sleep and have him unable to awaken if he was needed. She wanted something that would ease that insomnia that he was notorious for, and promote restfulness while giving a sense that he was protected and cared for.

Not to mention, all of this had to be done at so low a magic level as to be practically undetectable. Strong spells would set off every paranoid instinct in the Potions master's body. It had to be so harmless and delicate that even Salazar Slytherin himself would have been impressed with its subtlety.

And she couldn't find a blasted thing. The charms were either too noticeable or too strong. She'd failed, and failure left her frustrated, annoyed, and face-down on her desk. She was pathetic.

She ignored the whispering around her. Let them all think that the Gryffindor Brain had finally cracked up under the pressure of schoolwork. At this point, having a good wallow in her failure, she didn't care, and it was rather peaceful here under the cloud of her hair. Eventually, when she didn't move or do anything else gossip-worthy, the murmuring ceased. Still she didn't move, but stayed, head bent to the desk.

It took a while to penetrate through the whirl of thoughts that were plaguing her. She had no idea how long she'd been listening before she finally heard the sound. It was low and pleasing. Glancing up she looked around and then realized that the third year Hufflepuff girl at the next table was humming softly to herself as she worked over a scroll.

The tune was soothing and vaguely familiar. A moment later Hermione identified it as an old lullaby. Curiosity satisfied, she closed her eyes and put her head back on the desk.

Two seconds later they snapped back open as she sat straight up in her chair. Lullabies. Babies. She'd been going about it wrong the entire time. Feeling fired up with renewed purpose and the thrill of the literary chase, Hermione stood abruptly, eager to start her search over again. Perhaps a little too quickly, as, without warning, the wooden chair she'd been sitting in fell over in a shockingly loud clatter in the quiet library, drawing turned heads and a pointed Hisssss from Madam Pince. Blushing furiously, she righted her chair and escaped the curious and slightly accusing eyes of her schoolmates by darting into the first row of stacks.

The books she sought were in a short cul-de-sac row that was created in an oddly angled nook consisting of the back wall of the library and two heavy shelving units. It took her twenty minutes to find what she wanted since a support column partially hid the opening to the row. Dropping to the floor to better see the titles on the dusty bottom shelf, she felt a pang of concern when she noticed only four slim volumes. However, as she ran her fingertip across the smooth leather of the spines, she felt the unmistakable tingle of magic. There was power here — old power that had nothing to do with the apparent age of the books. Yet for all the force of the power, it was warm and comforting, wrapping her in a magical acceptance that relaxed her all the way down to her toes and caused a happy smile to spread unbidden across her face.

Mother's magic. Old magic. A magic from before wands and formalized schools of magic. This was the magic that Harry's mother had gifted her son with; the magic that had repelled Voldemort's Killing Curse and saved Harry from Quirrell.

Yes, this was exactly what she was looking for.

Still grinning, she absently stroked the covers as she pulled each book from the shelf. The first was What to Expect Magically When You are Magically Expecting. While it might be an interesting read, it wasn't exactly what she was looking for. The second book, Raising a Magical Child, by Dr. Spook, looked more promising.

Deciding to just get comfortable where she was, she turned and settled her back against the solid frame of the bookcase, pulling her school robes around her. Opening the book, she breathed in the scent of talcum powder that emanated from the tome. Flipping over to the index, Hermione scanned down until she found a chapter entitled, 'Getting Your Child to Sleep.' Relaxing into the rhythm of reading, Hermione soon lost herself in the words.

Agony shooting up Severus' left leg halted his usual fluid stride, bringing him up short with a suppressed gasp. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he shot a quick glance around him to make sure that his momentary bout of weakness had not been witnessed. Seeing no one in his line of sight, he loosened a bit of his iron-willed control and tried to relax into the pain. Leaning into a bookcase for balance, he gave thanks that this part of the library was currently deserted of students.

While the Dark Lord tended to favor the Cruciatus Curse, it was by no means the only method he used to punish disobedience or failure. Voldemort had not been pleased with his report the past evening, and he was paying for his lapse now with his Master's new fondness for the Dolor Torus hex. Like the Cruciatus, it targeted the muscles and nerves of the body, but could be localized and focused in one area, rather than the body as a whole. It also had the added benefits of lingering aftereffects and reoccurring pains that lasted for several days, rather than several hours, while not having the unpleasant side effect of driving the sufferer insane.

Making sure he made no noise, Severus limped down the short aisle, stopping as he came abreast of the stone column that blocked the view of the furthest reaches of the aisle. He was startled to see Hermione Granger seated on the floor, her feet tucked up under her school robes. Around her on the floor were several books while another rested in her lap. She was completely absorbed in the pages.

Checking his first impulse to send her on her way with a snide comment, he stayed in the shadow of the column simply watching the female member of the Golden Trio.

It was an endeavor he engaged in more often than the students knew. He'd often watched from secluded alcoves as the students interacted. The knowledge he gleaned had prevented countless pranks, fights and schemes of revenge. Severus knew that he was aware, before any of the other teachers with the possible exception of the headmaster, the mood and pulse of the student body.

Curious to see what enthralled the girl so, he tilted his head to get a better look at the titles of the books she'd pulled from the shelves. He felt mildly surprised as he read the title of the first book. By the time he'd gotten to Gifting Your Child With A Magical Name They Can Grow Into, mild surprise had grown into a hot anger mixed with acute disappointment.

Stupid, stupid girl! Was this then the mystery of her changing behavior? Was this the passion that had pulled her attention from her schoolwork? He felt unaccountably betrayed. How dare she?

"Miss Granger!"

Ch 11 Realizations

 

"Miss Granger!"

Six years of training had Hermione on her feet and standing in an approximation of military attention before she'd even fully processed the situation. She had no idea what had earned her the wrath of Professor Snape but there was no denying that the Potions master was livid. Black brows like thunderclouds were lowered over depthless eyes, while a snarl of rage curled his upper lip to show the tip of one sharp incisor.

Having been on the receiving end of a few of the professor's more spectacular tirades over the years, Hermione knew she was in serious trouble; a small part of her noted that she'd actually never seen Professor Snape this angry before except when dealing with Harry. Pulling the child-rearing book closer to her chest in a futile attempt at protection, she waited for the explosion she knew was coming.

"Foolish girl! Is this the reason then?" he hissed.

Hermione, still a bit shocked at his sudden appearance in this seldom used portion of the library, gave in to her confusion. "Sir?"

Snape continued, as if not hearing her. "Did you honestly believe that you wouldn't be discovered? That your activities wouldn't bring consequences?"

Hermione froze at his words. He knew. How had he found her out? Had Professor Vector said something? Had Rink let something slip?

Icy tendrils of fear coiled in her stomach. "Please, Professor Snape," she pleaded, "I can explain. If you'll just let me — "

"You, Miss Granger, have done enough, I think. You will also tell me the name of your partner." The way he spat the word partner made her fear for poor Rink. She had no doubt that Professor Snape was enraged enough to give Rink clothes. She couldn't let that happen. She wouldn't let that happen.

Taking a deep breath, she met the angry stare of her professor. Her voice, though, gave away her panic, her words coming out choked and strangled. "I acted on my own, sir."

He let out a sharp, short bark of laughter. "Twenty points, Miss Granger, for blatantly lying to me. Do you know, that I thought Dumbledore wrong when he said a boy caught your attention? I thought you better than that. I thought you smarter than that."

Hermione frowned. Dumbledore was talking about her? And what did any of this have to do with a boy? "Sir, I don't –"

"I have not granted you permission to speak," he snapped, cutting her off before she got any further. "Professor McGonagall will be mostdisappointed in you, Miss Granger. To say nothing of your other teachers." He stopped then and drew a breath, his eyes hard and without mercy. "I gave you my time," he finally spat, face twisted in contempt. "I had begun to believe that maybe, just maybe, my initial assessment of you had been somewhat hasty on my part. And this . . . this is the path you take?" He jerkingly gestured to the books at her feet. "You have thrown aside potential for the transitory and lust-bound promises of foolish boys? I gifted you with reason of maturity for your behaviors of late. More the fool am I," he ground out. Then his voice turned mocking, "But then, what have you the need of studying when you destine yourself to marriage and mewling brats before you even live your life."Marriage and brats? Suddenly she understood — the books at her feet and the one clasped in her hand — it made a horrible kind of sense. For one blinding moment, she felt supremely angry that he would think she was capable of endangering her future by getting pregnant while still in school. Relief quickly coursed through her upon realizing that he still didn't know about S.N.O.R.T. That relief, however, was almost immediately overwhelmed as the original anger came back full force. How dare he accuse her?

Furious with him, Hermione stepped forward to meet her accuser right as he took a step past the stone column that partially blocked the entrance to this little alcove, his tall, looming presence making the small, enclosed space feel even smaller.

The cycle of fear, anger, relief and anger swamped any good sense Hermione had left. "How dare you! How could you?" she cried. "You think that I am . . . that I would . . . pregnant? Me? What happened to thinking? Do you not practice what you preach? Or was Sirius right that night in the Shrieking Shack? Once again you put your mind to the task and come to the wrong conclusion?"

The words were no sooner said than she clapped a hand over her mouth with a gasp, staring at her professor in horror. Professor Snape flushed a dull red and advanced on her. Then, to Hermione's eyes he seemed to lurch sideways, his face abruptly draining of color until his complexion was a chalky white. The lashes of his suddenly closed eyes looking like fresh bruises against his skin. She saw one black-clad arm reaching out to grab hold of the bookcase at his side while the other grasped at empty air.

In that split second, Hermione knew he was going to fall. Her anger forgotten, and without a second thought, she rushed forward, stepping into the reach of her professor's splayed hand. She staggered when that hand crushed her right shoulder, his greater weight and momentum causing her stumble before she found her balance. Dropping the book she carried, Hermione wrapped her arm around Professor Snape's waist, fighting against gravity to lever him back upright. Realization hit her hard. She wasn't going to be able to hold him.

Twisting her body, ignoring the pain where his strong fingers dug mercilessly into her collarbone, Hermione managed to get her wand out of her robe pocket. Focusing on the dropped book, a swish and two flicks later, the book was transfigured into a low, padded stool.

Dropping her wand, she reached to again wrap her arm around Professor Snape's waist. Leaning forward slightly, she carefully shifted her weight until he slid down to land heavily on the padded stool. Forgetting in the heat of his anger the very reason he'd found her in the first place, Severus strode forward, intent on reaching the girl at the end of the short cul-de-sac row. Unfortunately, while his mind may have forgotten, his body had not. Two steps later, his left leg locked in a fierce spasm that stole his breath. Face contorted in agony as tortured nerve endings flared to searing life and muscles knotted and cramped, Severus blindly struck out with both hands in an attempt to keep from falling. His right hand found and gripped the solid oak shelving unit to his side. His left hand came down and clamped on something soft and yielding that gave and swayed slightly beneath his hand before steadying.

Eyes squeezed tight and jaw locked against the pain, Severus neither knew nor cared what prop he'd found as he attempted to breath through the agony ripping through his body. And then he was falling — a controlled slide that barely registered before his fall was abruptly halted when he came to rest on something soft and padded.

He could barely make out the voice of the Granger girl over the roaring in his ears. Iron will fought against his body's reactions until once again his mind ruled and he could force the pain down. As the roaring subsided, he could finally hear the girl's frantic entreaties.

"Professor Snape? Sir? Please open your eyes. Please be okay. I'm going to get Madam Pomfrey but I'm not leaving until you open your eyes."

Opening his eyes, he forced air passed clenched teeth. "No," he hissed.

The girl flinched at his harsh tone.

"Sir, you're hurt. Madam Pomfrey-"

"Can do nothing for me," he finished with gasp.

"But, sir . . . "

Severus had too many years of dealing with Minerva not to recognize the special brand of Gryffindor stubbornness on Miss Granger's face. Leaning back against the shelf, he stretched his leg out, wincing as the movement ignited the nerves once again. Thankfully, this time, the flare was tolerable.

His voice was rough and abrasive with the strain of his control. "Madam Pomfrey can do nothing," he repeated as calmly as he could manage. He stiffened slightly as another wave of agony swept up his leg, and he fought to not clench the muscles, knowing from previous experience that it would only serve to make the pain last longer. As the pain ebbed, he left out a soft breath. "This will pass, eventually. It must simply be endured."

Focusing on controlling the pain rather than the girl, Severus was surprised to see Granger set a silencing spell and a notice-me-not spell across the entryway to this hidden alcove. He rather expected her to run. If not to her little friends, then, at least to her Head of House. At his questioning look, she gave him one of those brave little smiles that Gryffindors were famed for. The one they usually gave, he'd noted over the years, just before they did something selflessly idiotic.

His supposition was proven correct when she returned to kneel beside his outstretched leg, her face earnest. "None of the other students should see you like this. And if you won't let me get Madam Pomfrey, I will stay to help you."

He needed no help. As he addressed her, he made sure that the full potency of venom laced his voice. "You may go, Miss Granger. I suggest you use this time to say your good-byes. Helping me will not get you out of being expelled."

The low stool on which he sat put him close to her. Sitting up on her knees, as she was, put them on an almost level height. There was no mistaking the mule-stubborn expression that flitted briefly across her face or the exasperated sigh she let out as she shook her head.

"I'm not pregnant." The words came out baldy and without finesse. Hermione winced as the words hung in the air between them.

Dragging both hands up through her hair, she grasped at the roots and tugged slightly while letting out a soft, strangled noise of frustration. There was just something about Professor Snape that left her emotions in a tangled knot. He was the only person she knew who could simultaneously invoke anger, compassion, hurt, outrage, and protectiveness in her.

"I'm sorry, Professor, for what I said a minute ago. I was angry that you would think that I would . . . that I would allow myself to become pregnant. I take my studies very seriously." She leaned forward slightly, willing him to believe in her sincerity. "Because of that, I am very appreciative of what you have been doing for me. I have noticed that you have granted me both your time and attention. I would not do anything to jeopardize the faith in have shown in me."

Hermione sat back on her heels, noticing that the professor's color seemed to be coming back although the taut lines around his eyes and mouth showed that he was still in considerable pain. Beyond the pain, she could read nothing in his expression.

"Very well, Miss Granger," he finally said, his voice strained and lacking in the fluid quality she was used to hearing. "I will accept that I have come to the wrong conclusion. In this instance. You may leave now."

When he leaned his head back against a row of books and closed his eyes again, she knew she'd been dismissed. She reminded herself why she was doing this again. He deserved help. He deserved to have someone think of him first for a change . . . even if he was being a complete bastard.

"I won't leave you while you are injured, sir. You can take as many points as you like, but I won't go."

His eyelids raised just enough for him to glare at her though his lashes. "Bloody Gryffindors!" he growled.

Again, she gave him that little smile. "Yes, sir. I quite agree. There really nothing much you can do with them, except let them have their way."

He opened his mouth to blast her for her impertinence when he stopped, studying her instead. She had a bit of her school robe twisted between her fingers. Her eyes were sweeping over his outstretched leg in an assessing gaze that reminded him of Poppy during her more maternal Healer moments. It was, however, the girls' bottom lip that was being worried to the point of bleeding between sharp white teeth that really clued him in. The girl was worried for him — truly, inexplicably, worried. It was such a novel idea that he wasn't quite sure how to handle it.

Then another spasm hit, and his attention was focused back on the pain rather than the girl. Leaning forward he dug his fingers into his thigh, kneading at the knots formed from the muscle cramps. He was startled when he felt a second set of hands begin kneading at his knotted calf muscles.

"Miss Granger!" he exclaimed, outraged that she felt she had the right to touch him.

She responded with a cheeky, "Gryffindor, sir." Although, he noticed that she at least had the grace to blush fiercely at her forward behavior.

Gryffindor, indeed. However, the feel of her strong fingers digging into the knots, relaxing the tension within his leg, stayed his usual response to verbally flay her for her presumption in touching him. They both worked in silence for a few minutes until he felt the clenched muscles relax. At the first sign of ease, he brushed her hands from his leg with an impatient flick of his fingers. Sitting up and leaning back against the bookcase once again, he found the girl staring at him, all big brown eyes and serious expression.

He'd displayed too much vulnerability in the last few minutes. It was time to reestablish himself. The now muted throb of pain through his body, made the task more difficult but not impossible. Gathering the somewhat tattered threads of his control, he wrapped himself in his chosen armor. When he was prepared, he struck. "Very well, Miss Granger, I have conceded that my supposition was incorrect. And as you have taken it upon yourself to inflict yourself upon my person, you will tell me the reason for reading those specific books." A flash of hurt across the girl's face rewarded his words.

"Now, Miss Granger," he snapped, his mood mollified somewhat by her sudden jump.

"They are part of some research I'm doing," she began. She reached over and picked up one of the books, stroking a finger gently along its spine. She spoke down, as if to the book, rather than up, to him, her words and manner thoughtful. "You've opened my eyes to questions I didn't even know I had." She looked up then, eyes bright. "Affinity, the Vere Veneficus spell, and so many other things. I can easily learn the things that all the other witches and wizards learn from the time they are eleven and come to Hogwarts. What I don't know, however, is everything that happens during those first eleven years."

She shook her head then, once again biting at her lower lip. A sign he was now coming to understand meant she was thinking very hard about something and choosing her words with care. "Truthfully, sir, I came across these books while looking for a different sort of reference for another project I'm working on." Her eyes flickered up to his for a moment before darting away to settle once more on the book in her lap. "I believe though," she said, still choosing her words with great care, "that some of the answers I seek about the wizarding world can be found within these pages."

She fell silent for a moment and then took a deep breath, her back straightening and her chin rising as she met his eyes once more.

Severus resisted the urge to snort in amusement. He knew that particular Gryffindor stance, as well. She was about to make some grand gesture.

She did not disappoint.

"I won't say anything," she made a vague motion to his still outstretched leg, "not even to Harry or Ron. I can only guess as to why you are in this pain, and it is no one's concern but yours and possibly the Headmaster's. I would . . ." she trailed off and then seemed to gather her courage again. "I would," she began again, "very much like to have your trust."

His response to that bit of maudlin drivel was automatic. "I do not make a habit, Miss Granger, of trusting children."

She gave him a small smile, seemingly unperturbed by his response. "I understand, sir," she agreed. "But I would very much like to earn yours anyway."

Severus Snape was not a man usually given to introspection, or to wallowing in what-ifs or might-have-beens. However, he had found over the years that walking the darkened corridors and passageways of Hogwarts put one in an introspective frame of mind whether or not the individual in question cared for introspection. The cool darkness swallowed the faint click of his boot heels and the soft swish of his robes until it was easy enough for even him, a man not given to flights of fancy, to imagine that he was the only person left in the castle. Or, the only person left until he discovered two hormone-controlled, fumbling seventh years making use of the alcove behind a statue of Boris the Boring.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't a night for surprises." He was gratified as two startled teenagers scrambled to their feet from the makeshift pallet on the alcove floor.

"Miss Pennistone," Severus snapped, "15 points from Hufflepuff. Get to your rooms." With a last longing glance at her erstwhile paramour that made the professor want to roll his eyes, Maureen Pennistone fled with gratifying haste.

"Mr. O'Brien."

"Yes, sir?"

Eyebrow on the rise, Severus asked, "Hufflepuff, Mr. O'Brien?"

Sean O'Brien straightened out his Slytherin tie and gave his glowering Head of House a deferential nod of his head before answering, though a slight smirk still graced his lips. "In the spirit of inter-house cooperation, sir." The smirk softened slightly into a small genuine smile as he added, "There is, also, a lot to be said for courting a future wife that exhibits the Hufflepuff traits of nurturing and loyalty."

Severus considered this for a moment. "Indeed," he agreed.

Mr. O'Brien, believing himself free, nodded again and started off down the corridor in the direction of the stairs that would ultimately take him back to the dungeons; Severus let him get halfway down the hall before calling out after his wayward pupil. "Five points from Slytherin, Mr. O'Brien. I would expect better from a seventh year than to get caught. And another five points for getting caught by me, forcing me to take to take points from my own house."

This time Mr. O'Brien had the good graces to look marginally ashamed. "Yes, sir. It won't happen again."

"See that it doesn't, Mr. O'Brien. Now get back to the common room before I'm forced to give one of my own detention."

Severus watched as his wayward student headed back to the dungeons. The O'Brien boy was smart. His ambitions lay in the direction of curse-breaking, a skill to which the boy was particularly well suited. The choice of Maureen Pennistone, however, was a bit unusual for a Slytherin. Granted, she was loyal and nurturing like all her house, but her family was not pureblood. Severus smiled then, not pureblood but also not completely English. Maureen Pennistone had family in the United States. He felt a surge of satisfaction at that realization. Once graduated, Mr. O'Brien and Miss Pennistone could be persuaded into taking a tour of the American wizarding community — a tour that that would effectively put Mr. O'Brien out of the Dark Lord's reach. He would have to make a point of talking with Mr. O'Brien before graduation.

Filing that mental note, he continued his walk, sinking once again into the peaceful contemplation that Hogwarts inevitably brought forth in him. An hour or so later, he rounded the corner on the sixth floor landing. He paused to look over the grounds through the great round window there. It was a favorite spot of his. Leaning a shoulder against the stonework, he gazed out at the moon-silvered grounds. From this vantage point he could see Hagrid's small hut and the shadowed line of the Dark Forest beyond.

Gazing out into the dark, away from prying eyes, Severus allowed his mind to roam. As it was wont to do of late, he found himself pondering the question of Hermione Granger. He admitted that he had allowed his curiosity to lead him to interacting with Miss Granger in ways that he would not normally.

He enjoyed puzzles and exercises of the mind. The girl offered him a mental challenge outside his normal routine. She was neither the Dark Lord nor Albus. She demanded nothing from him, making no claims on his loyalty. She asked only that he teach her. The possibility was a refreshing change.

He leaned forward until his forehead rested against the cool glass of the window. The question became, he decided, who was the bigger fool — Miss Granger because she was willing to be guided by him or himself for wanting to do that guiding?

As a spy, it was his job to know both his allies' and his enemies' strengths and weaknesses and how best to exploit them. It also necessitated knowing and understanding his own strengths and weaknesses. His temper was a weakness. The afternoon's fiasco in the library with Miss Granger was proof of that. Though it galled him to admit it, his feelings had been hurt. The idea that the girl who'd occupied his thoughts of late — who had been given his time, energy and attention — had ultimately no more sense than her bubble-headed classmates had infuriated him.

He shifted his full weight onto his left leg, feeling the twinge of abused nerves and muscles but also a sense of satisfaction when his leg held. That had surprised him. After accusing her and threatening her with expulsion, she'd stayed to help him. She voluntarily touched him. She helped him. He remembered the look on her face and her hands twisting into her robe. She'd been worried about him.

Of course, Gryffindors were known to be overly sentimental. He owed her nothing. Yet, she had offered her silence and her trust. Not that he really believed that she could successfully keep either. Eventually Potter and Weasley would ferret out her secrets, and he had no use for her trust nor was he likely to give his own to a child.

He sighed then. Lie to others, never lie to yourself. She intrigued him still. He would willingly teach her.

Closing his eyes, he let his mind go blank. Maybe tonight he would turn in early, and eventually sleep.While Professor Snape looked over the grounds and thought of Hermione, Hermione was busy thinking about Professor Snape. She desperately needed someone to talk to. When Rink made his now regular appearance in the curtain-shrouded privacy of her bed, Hermione practically pounced on him.

The house-elf, long used to dealing with the volatile Potions master took one look at Hermione and promptly vanished. He reappeared moments later with a tea tray. "Rink is thinking that the Young Miss, and not Hermy, is troubled. Young Miss will drink and talk and Rink will listen."

Moments later, knees pulled up to her chest and teacup grasped firmly in hand, Hermione let everything out. "Oh, Rink, what am I going to do? He was a project, Rink. It was something that needed doing so I decided to do it myself. I mean, okay, there was an element of pity involved. He . . . it was just . . . no one else seemed to care about him."

Rink nodded solemnly while pushing a small tea sandwich up under Hermione's hand. He had noticed that the Young Miss sometimes forgot to eat. Rink had, therefore, decided he would serve both the Master of Potions and the Young Miss. "Young Miss cares. Hermy serves the Master of Potions."

"But Rink, don't you see, it was an abstract sort of caring." She finished off the sandwich and absently reached for another one. "It's not abstract anymore. Someone hurt him, Rink. He was in such pain this afternoon." Mindfully, even now, of the trust she was attempting to earn and the secrets that she carried, she refrained from saying the name out loud. "I know who and I know why, but it makes me so angry that no one helps him!"

"Hermy will serve. Hermy will help."

Gaze fixed on her comforter, Hermione replied softly, "I just don't know if it will be enough."

Rink's ears twitched and sly grin spread across his face. "Hermy likes the Master."

Hermione snorted softly. "Yeah, I like him." She gave a brief shake of her head. "You know, I never understood how Professor Dumbledore could seem to like Professor Snape. Sure, Professor Snape treats the Headmaster with more respect than he does us, but just barely. Yet, even when Professor Snape is all snarls and growls and wicked temper, the Headmaster just smiles at him." She trailed off and began to pick absently at a loose thread in her comforter.

Rink waited with the patience of his kind for her to speak again, subtly refilling her cup with more tea while her attention was diverted.

"I like him, Rink," she finally said, "in the same way I like Neville and Colin. Even when I was furious with him for thinking I was pregnant, I still wanted to just smile at him, to let him know that I care about what happens to him." Focusing back on the elf, she tilted her head to one side, her words coming slowly as she tested them out loud against the thoughts in her head. "He was angry at me because he thought I had squandered his teaching. He was angry because he felt let down." She paused a moment, then continued, her expression thoughtful. "He was feeling betrayed. But he wouldn't have felt betrayed unless he considered me worthy. No, not worthy," she corrected herself, "but having the potential to be worthy; having the potential to be trusted."

Hermione felt a smile start to creep across her face. "He doesn't hate me, Rink." Then added, "Granted, I don't think he really likes me either. But not hating me is quite an accomplishment, I think." Beaming at Rink, she grabbed up both his hands in hers. "Do you know what this means?" she asked, before answering her own question in a rush. "It means that it's working. S.N.O.R.T. is working."

At Rink's confused look, Hermione explained, with a small blush of self-consciousness. "S.N.O.R.T. is just what I call the plan to help Professor Snape."

"Hermy has a plan? Hermy knows what must be done?"

Hermione patted the elf comfortingly on his shoulder. One would have to be completely deaf to not hear the genuine worry and concern in Rink's voice. He took his responsibility of caring for Professor Snape very seriously.

"I still don't know how to fix his eating problem," she said. "The list of what he is eating has been very useful. He is avoiding anything spicy, as well as the greasier foods, which suggests that his problem is, at least in part, medical rather than stress-related. Although if it were completely medical you would think he'd go to Madam Pomfrey or just brew up something himself."

As Rink's shoulders drooped, she tried to inject some hope in her voice. "Hey, don't lose faith just yet. I have worked up a list of those foods he does seem to eat based on the information you gave me. I've also added a few additional foods that I thought the kitchens could possibly prepare for him. With more options, we might be able to tempt him into eating a bit more than he currently does. And," she added dramatically, "I have this." In her hands, Hermione held one of her new baby books.

Rink looked skeptical. "How will a book serve the Master of Potions?"

"Not the book, but what is in the book." Hermione patted the bed next to her. "Come over here and I'll show you. I think this will be the very thing we, and Professor Snape, need."

Ch 12: Sweet Dreams

Vector was troubled. Actually she was a little more than troubled; maybe somewhere between troubled and apprehensive. Then again, maybe she should just forget all the in-between stages and jump straight to worried. She stared up at her master equation from her spot on the floor. Worried was good. She could work with worried.

"Miranda? What are you doing sitting on the floor, child?"

Scrambling to her feet, Miranda attempted to brush the dirt and chalk dust from her robes as she turned to face the headmaster.Blast!She'd wanted to be somewhat presentable when the headmaster arrived. He had a knack of showing up when she was doing something to embarrass herself. Answering his question, she said, "Chairs clutter up the space. If I sit on the floor, I can see everything better."

Albus gave her an indulgent smile and an 'of course, my dear' before getting to the business at hand.

Miranda had noticed that he'd been doing more of that of late — the dotty old man persona was slipping more and more to be replaced with Albus Dumbledore, one of the most powerful wizards in modern times.

"You said you had news, Miranda." Albus eyed Vector with concern, his blue eyes serious. "I do not think you have called me to tell me good news. Tell me what troubles you."

"I added a new equation to the mix. It's taken a little while, but I've finally managed to stabilize it in relation to the overall equation matrix." Vector pointed over to where a wooden framed blackboard stood with several others. "I'd originally had her only as a part of one of the group equations. Then after . . . well, let's just say I saw her in a new light one evening and decided that she might merit a separate equation. I was right."

Albus clucked his tongue. "You're skipping ahead to the end again, Miranda. Who have you added?"

She wrinkled her nose at him. She always had preferred beginning at the end and working backwards, rather than start at the beginning and work forwards. "Sorry, Albus. I added Hermione Granger."

At the headmaster's raised brow, she made a vague 'what-could-I-do' sort of gesture with her hand. "I know, I know. It surprised me too. Mr. Potter has his own equation. I agreed with you on that point, as well as having a group equation that incorporated Potter's friends with him. Now, I've split out Miss Granger to have her own equation and I'm beginning to think that Mr. Weasley might need his own as well."

Albus looked skeptical. "Miss Granger's inclusion has altered the master equation that much?"

Vector waved to her multi-colored line chart spinning lazily in the air. "Look for yourself."

Studying the lines of force and possibility, Albus asked, "Miss Granger is the purple line?"

Nodding her head, Vector made a noise of assent.

After studying the diagram for a few moments, Albus turned to Vector, deep frown lines marring his usually serene expression. "You've rechecked your equations? Are you sure of these results?"

Vector felt her worry shift into the first beginnings of fear. Albus was worried. If Albus was worried, then the rest of them were in deep trouble. "I've checked and double-checked," she finally said.

"Miranda, this addition has shifted the whole balance. The timeline for the confrontation with Tom has—"

"Been moved up by months," Vector finished for him. "I know. What I don't know is how or why. That one person could so significantly affect the dates . . . " She shrugged her shoulders slightly. "It seems rather impossible, but my equations don't lie."

Both fell silent for a moment, before Vector raised her wand to the glowing line chart. "Whatever she does, it happens here." Vector pointed to where purple crossed grey. "She has some kind of interaction with your spy at this point, along with two or possibly three Order members here" — Vector tapped several points of intersecting lines — "here, and here. Then, at this point, everything starts accelerating rapidly; compressing the time line from what used to be possibly years into what may be a year or year and a half at most."

"Harry is not yet ready for the confrontation."

Vector fiddled with a piece of chalk in her pocket. She really hated these conversations with Albus. "Then I suggest you get him ready. It's coming, Albus, and it's coming soon. Not to mention, that whatever it is that Hermione Granger does, it significantly decreases the projected casualties on our side. We dare not waste that gift."

Albus followed the grey line that represented his spy. Like before, it continued to wink in and out of existence. His gaze was drawn to the silver line that Vector had pointed out last time. "The rogue line remains."

"Yes. I had thought there was a possibility it was Miss Granger, but, if that was the case, when I added her equation, it should have vanished. I still can't find a reason for its existence within my numbers, but something within the equations is generating it."

"It is still headed for my spy?"

"Yes, and oddly enough, its course was the one thing that was not accelerated by the inclusion of Miss Granger. Its pace is erratic though. It jumps forward and then stops for periods of time, only to go forward again. There was steady movement a couple of days ago, but it's since gone completely still. But even with its starts and stops, it is still on its course."

Albus fell silent, staring at the spinning lines. Working his fingers through the tangles in his beard, he stroked the long hair, thinking and considering, weighing his options and the importance of all the pieces in play. Then he stopped to remember that these lines represented people who were more than mere pawns on the chessboard between Tom and himself. Harry would have to be ready.

"Not a word to anyone, Miranda," he finally said, weariness heavy in his voice.

"Of course not, Albus."

Drawing himself up, Albus summoned a smile for the younger witch and headed for the doorway. Just as he was about to cross over, he turned back. "Write up a separate equation for Ronald Weasley as well, Miranda. Keep the one you have of the three of them together, but split them all out as well."

Hermione slid her hands along the bolts of fabric, feeling the rasp of cloth beneath the sensitive pads of her fingers. She had an idea of what she wanted, yet none of the smooth, heavyweight cottons seemed right to her. Every fabric so far had seemed wrong in some subtle way: too thin, too thick, or too stiff. The list of wrongness keeping getting longer until, with a small noise of disgust, she decided to simply give up for the time being. Maybe she could find something of Muggle make that would work. Not to mention, Ron and Harry would be expecting her at the Three Broomsticks soon. She would rather not have to explain what she was doing in a fabric store rather than the bookstore.

The old witch behind the counter smiled at Hermione as she made her way back up to the front of the little store. "Find what you were looking for, dear?"

Hermione's face reflected her disappointment. "Unfortunately, no. I couldn't seem to find the correct fabric for what I need."

The witch gave her another friendly smile, eyes crinkling at the corners into deep wrinkles. "Let me guess," she said. "You're looking for fabric to make new dress robes to catch the attention of the young wizard in your life?"

Hermione felt the blush creep across her cheeks. "Oh no," she corrected hastily, "I want to make some sheets." At the other woman's confused look, Hermione added, "In the old way."

The moment of confusion gave way as the woman's eyes lit up with delight. "Oh, sheets!" she exclaimed, stepping forward to pat Hermione's stomach with a wrinkled hand. "Congratulations, dear. You must have just found out."

She was so flabbergasted at the witch's actions that for a moment Hermione froze. Why is everyone so determined to make me pregnant?Gathering her scattered wits, Hermione tried to backtrack. "No, Madam, you — " Hermione never got to finish her sentence though as the old witch rattled on, oblivious to the fact that Hermione was staring at her in shock.

Hermione tuned back into the conversation in time to hear, "Bless you for thinking of the old ways. I must say, not many of the modern young witches today care enough to put forth the effort anymore. It's a shame really. I made the sheets for my own children when they were young. I'm of the firm belief that it makes them grow up to be healthier, more well-adjusted children. Everything nowadays has to be fast. Transfigure this, transfigure that. Magic isn't just about a lot of foolish wand-waving, you know."

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek to contain her laughter at that pronouncement. "Yes, Madam. I completely agree," she finally managed with what she hoped was a straight face. "In fact, I know someone who would very much agree with you."

The witch patted at Hermione again, her wrinkled hand feeling soft and papery against Hermione's arm. "Come with me, dear." She leaned forward, whispering conspiratorially, "I keep the good stuff in the back room."

Hermione followed along behind the woman who introduced herself as Agatha. Agatha led her into what at first looked like a tiny storeroom, but within moments was revealed as a magical construct, as it was much bigger on the inside than first appearances led one to believe. They walked past what seemed to be hundreds of bolts of fabric in every color and pattern imaginable. Twisting her way between the bolts, Agatha led her deeper into the maze of merchandise — past jars of knitting needles, containers piled high with colored thread, past boxes of fabric scraps and towers of leaning fabric bolts. Hermione was positive that the mountains of materials were only kept from tumbling down by some kind of stasis spell. She was so busy taking it all in that she was surprised when Agatha announced, "Here we are."

Set on a low wooden shelf before them lay eight bolts of cloth. Even through the slight layer of dust, Hermione could see a subtle sheen on the cloth from the flickering candlelight. Reaching out, she ran a hand down one edge of the fabric, letting out a pleased hum when her fingers slid against silky softness. "Agatha, this is perfect!"

The storekeeper preened a bit at Hermione's obvious approval. "Nepalese spider silk magically woven into the base cotton," the old witch offered. "Obviously more expensive, but it's strong, durable, and its level of softness and comfort can't be matched."

Hermione ran her hand over the cloth once again. "I'll take it."

Hermione, ensconced in her favorite squashy chair in the Gryffindor common room, glanced once more at her Ancient Runes text, identified the section on Viking Runes, and then focused her attention back on the pillowcase in her lap. As she placed each stitch, she recited the meanings and inverted meanings of each of the Viking runes in her head, looking up occasionally to check her definitions against the text.

With exams drawing near, she needed to study but she was determined to have Professor Snape sleeping like a proverbial baby before she left for summer holidays. That meant studying had to share time with S.N.O.R.T. activities. Not the most ideal situation, but she was determined. To that end, she'd begun practicing her needlework.

Agatha had stressed that Hermione would need to perform some fairly elaborate stitches for what she wanted and had suggested doing a few trial runs before attempting the real thing. As Agatha had made the magically imbued sheets for all five of her children, Hermione was more than willing to accept the elderly witch's advice.

That advice left her practicing stitches and attempting to study at the same time. Hermione, being Hermione though, had quickly grown bored with doing the same stitches over and over again. To keep herself from falling into the mindless monotony of repetition, she'd decided to make something useful. She just hoped that Rink didn't hyperventilate before she could convince him that she wasn't trying to give him clothes.

"Hermione, what are you doing?"

"Revising," came the somewhat distracted and muffled reply, although her manner left no doubt regarding her feelings about the obviousness of that question.

Raising her head, Hermione glanced pointedly at the chess game set up between Harry and Ron. "We only have seven weeks left until the end of term. Some of us do not wait until the last week before exams to cram an entire year's worth of information into our heads."

Ron scowled as Harry, and two of the pawns on the chessboard, snickered at the comment.

"Hermione, you've been revising since the first day of class, and I know what you look like when you are studying. What I meant was what are you doing with that?" he said, pointing to the bundle of white cloth bunched up in Hermione's lap. "I don't think I've ever seen you knit and study before." Ron's frown suddenly turned suspicious. "You're not reviving spew, are you? The house-elves finally like Gryffindor again. You and your bloody elf-hats are just going to screw it all up again."

Hermione huffed in annoyance. "First, Ronald, I am NOT knitting. I'm practicing embroidery stitches. Second, I have not revived S.P.E.W. Third, seven weeks is not a long time. In fact, it's an extremely short time, especially if you have a lot to do and study for."

Glancing at her watch, she started gathering up her supplies, stuffing cloth, needles, thread and books into her backpack. "I'll see you guys in a bit. I've got to meet my study group now. Then, when I get back, we are going to sit down and go over your revision plans for Transfiguration and Charms." She ignored the look of horror on Ron's face and the look of resignation on Harry's. Checking her watch once again, she said, "You've got an hour to come up with a plan on your own." With that, Hermione slung her backpack over one shoulder and left Gryffindor tower, heading towards the Room of Requirement.

As the portrait door swung shut, Harry tipped over his king on the board, signaling that he was resigning from the game. It wasn't a total loss, as he'd been losing anyway.

Ron, still grumbling, packed up the game. "You know, mate, every year I tell myself I'm not going to fall to her bossiness when it comes to studying. But every year, I somehow find myself with revision plans and color-coded timetables."

Harry chuckled. "Don't you want to pass Charms?"

Ron grimaced and then gave a small laugh. "Of course, I do. It's just that one year, I want to pass without having to break out the multi-colored ink."

Chessboard packed, Ron headed towards the boys' dormitory to get his books and some parchment. "You know, Harry, she never did say what she was embroidering or why."The door to the Room of Requirement opened with a satisfyingly loud crack of wood and iron against stone. Hermione couldn't help her brief grin as both Colin and Neville predictably jumped at the noise. It really was small, and petty, and yet there was something extremely gratifying in being able to throw open that door with a bang. She'd never realized how fun it could be until she'd done it a few times. It provided great stress relief.

"Profess—"

"Silence!" she thundered.

Both Colin and Neville snapped to attention, backs straight and eyes front and center. Neville, Hermione was proud to note, though sitting rigid on his stool, was not cringing. Stalking to the front of the room, she glared at her two 'students.' "Clear your desks except for a single roll of parchment, quill, and ink."

When Colin was a little slow, Hermione snapped, "Five points, Mr. Creevey for wasting my time. Clear your desk now!"

With gratifying speed, the desks were cleared and both students waited for her next words. Forcing a suitably Snape-like frown on her face, even though she really wanted to laugh at the seriousness of her friends' expressions, Hermione continued her glare until Colin was just starting to fidget. Dropping her voice down to a sibilant whisper that caused Neville and Colin to pay close attention, she began. "The time has come for your final exam."

"Final?" squeaked Colin.

"Final. Yes, that exam toward which you've worked all year long. The exam that proves you've actually learned something worthwhile in my class and have not wasted your time and, more importantly, mine. That final," Hermione sneered, ignoring the soft snicker from Neville's direction. "This will, of course, be your written final. The practical will be conducted during our next class period."

Giving each a copy of the exam she'd created, Hermione retreated back to the replica of Professor Snape's desk. Opening up her Runes textbook again and getting out the pillowcase, she went back to her studying and sewing, glancing up from time to time to check on the progress of her pupils. She took a break halfway though the hour to stalk around the room and peer menacing over their shoulders to keep up the Snape intimidation factor.

It was during her second circuit around the room that she noticed the somewhat peculiar way Neville was sitting. He was writing with one hand, the other being buried under the folds of his student robe at his side. After a bit of scrutiny, Hermione decided that Neville was clutching something. And if the movement of his arm was any indication, he was clutching his mystery object fairly tightly. Come to think of it, she had seen Neville fussing earlier with his bookbag after she'd told them to clear off their desks.

Curious now, Hermione took a few steps back from Neville so that she was no longer intruding in his personal space. Then she went still, knowing that Neville in his concentration would forget about her presence. It was a favorite Snape tactic. Predictably, Neville relaxed a few minutes later, though his grip on the hidden object didn't waver.

That was the moment Hermione struck, clamping her own hand down onto Neville's wrist. Neville let out a squawk of surprise but didn't resist when she lifted his hand free of his robes. Neville was grasping a small, cloth-covered bundle; a familiar looking cloth-covered bundle.

Mindful of Colin sitting a few seats away on Neville's right, Hermione leaned down so she could whisper into Neville's ear. "Neville, is that the Snape doll?"

Neville, turning an interesting shade of red, shot a quick glance over at Colin before whispering back, "It's just Little Sev."

"Little — " Hermione made a strangled noise, unable to actually say the name. "Neville!"

Neville shrugged and re-hide Little Sev back under his robe edge. "I feel better when I have him close by. He helps me think."

"He helps you . . ." Hermione trailed off. She couldn't very well yell since she'd been the one to give Neville the Snape look-alike doll to begin with. Although truth to be told, she'd actually forgotten about it. She had no idea Neville was still using it for Snape therapy.

Rolling her eyes, she straightened back up and resettled her teaching robes around her. Colin, she noticed, was now staring at them curiously. "Back to work, Mr. Creevey," she snapped. When the other boy turned back to his papers, she leaned back down to Neville. "We are going to talk later, Neville."

Fingers massaging the bridge of her nose, Hermione headed back up to the front of the classroom.It's no wonder Snape hates us all.

The hour finally finished, she gathered up the tests from two exhausted-looking boys.

"I think that might actually have been harder than Snape's — excuse me, Professor Snape's — real tests." Colin had points removed too many times for disrespect to ever forget the professor's title while in Hermione's presence.

Neville, slumped over in his seat with his head resting heavily on one upturned palm, agreed. "Six uses of moonstones in potions, Hermione? I don't think Professor Snape spent even five whole minutes covering moonstones in class."

Hermione laughed at the two young men. "Exactly," she said. "That's why it will probably be on the real exam. My guess is as an extra credit question."

"So, Professor Granger-Snape, since that was our written final, does this mean that class is over after we finish the practical?"

"That's correct," she answered. "You guys have done a great job and learned a lot in here. Neville, you are so much more confident in yourself and your abilities that I'm truly impressed. I always knew you could do it." She then leveled a hard stare at him. "But we are still going to talk." When Neville nodded his understanding, she turned to Colin.

"Colin, you've done remarkable work too, especially after Professor Snape did the Vere Veneficus spell." She grinned. "So, for outstanding work, even if you are Gryffindors, I award you each . . . five points." She had timed it perfectly. The paltry amount of reward points set both Neville and Colin off into snorting laughter. When the laughter died down, she continued. "There are only seven weeks left before end of term. I figure now would be a good time to stop our sessions so you can concentrate on using this time for other studies. I'll still be using this room at this time for studying, so you are welcome to come in and study as well. The common room gets a little distracting sometimes."

Hermione took out her wand and tapping her head, eyes and chest, reversing the Snape charm she had on herself. Holding out her arms, she faced the two boys. "No more Professor Granger-Snape. It's just plain old Hermione from now on."

Moments later, the three of them were heading for Gryffindor Tower. Just as the Room of Requirement's door faded from view behind them, Neville turned to Hermione. "So, what about next year, Professor?" he asked grinning.A few nights later, Rink appeared with a popwithin Professor Snape's quarters. Depositing the coffee urn with its silver tray onto the side table, Rink bowed low and turned to leave.

"Stop," Severus commanded, loud enough to be heard, but not forceful enough to alarm the elf.

Rink turned back and regarded the human he served. "Master is needing something else from Rink?"

Marking his place within the book he was reading with one long finger, Severus focused his full attention on Rink. Rink, as Severus had noted, was no longer wearing the ratty tea towel that had been his habitual garment of choice since he had begun his service. He was, instead, wearing a pristine white pillowcase, with holes cut appropriately places for the elf's head and skinny arms. Elves, in Severus' experience, rarely changed their attire. "I do not need anything else this evening. I simply wish to inquire what you are wearing."

Rink, glancing down at his new pillowcase, puffed out his chest with pride. "Hermy made special just for Rink." Seeing that his chosen human was curious, Rink crossed to where Snape sat and rose up on his toes so that the embroidered stitches were easier to see in the flickering firelight. Rink pointed proudly to the lines stitched over his left breast. "Hermy put Rink's name and Master of Potions' name so that all will know who Rink serves."

Severus, somewhat taken aback by the pride in Rink's attitude, reached up to run a calloused fingertip lightly across the slightly uneven stitches. On the top line, in Slytherin green was stitched RINK. Below it, smaller letters chased in silver, read SEVERUS SNAPE, MASTER OF POTIONS.

Rink grinned his pleasure. "Hermy said that because Master leads Slytherin, and Rink serves the Master, that Rink could wear Slytherin colors." Rink dropped back down to his bare feet, a small frown of worry crossing his face. "Rink can wear the Master's colors? If the Master does not approve, Rink will remove them immediately and punish himself most severely."

Severus was stunned. The elf wanted to be associated with him? He wanted to wear Slytherin colors? No one who wasn't Slytherin themselves wanted to wear Slytherin colors. His surprise lasted only a moment though as he considered his personal elf.

Rink was young by elf standards, and had been with Severus since he'd first joined the teaching staff. Privately, he'd always wondered if Rink had been assigned to him as punishment for some misdeed the elf had committed. He and the elf had long ago come to an agreement on what could and could not be touched within his quarters and workrooms. There had been initial dramatics over suitable elf punishments, as well as when punishments were necessary. In the end, his stubborn nature had won out over ingrained elfish tendencies. Rink did not hurt himself and Severus gave very few orders, his own situation with the Dark Lord providing him a natural abhorrence to accepting servitude from another being. Occasionally, though, reminders of the no punishment rule had to be given.

Leaning forward in his chair so that he was closer to Rink's height, Severus reminded the elf of their previous chats. "You are not to punish yourself. We have had this discussion before. If punishment is to be meted out, then I will be the one to demand it. Have I demanded your punishment?"

Rink shook his head. "No."

"Then there will be no more talk of punishment." Then, feeling a bit foolish, he added, "You look very nice in your new attire, Rink. You are welcome to wear both my name and house colors, if that is what you desire." Severus was rewarded by a smile that stretched from one of Rink's bat-like ears to the other. Egads, I'm going soft. Or possibly just touched in the head. Thank Merlin the house-elves only talk with other elves and no one ever pay them any mind.

But there had been something in what the elf had said. "Who is this Hermy?" he asked as the name came back to him.

"Hermy is new to the elves of Hogwarts. Hermy has asked to serve the Master of Potions with Rink."

Severus considered the stitch work, and Rink's delight for the new elf, and hazarded a guess. "Hermy is . . . female?" At Rink's nod, Severus continued, "This Hermy wishes to help you in serving me?"

Rink nodded again. "Hermy came to Lonny to ask to speak to Rink, to ask Rink and Lonny if Hermy could serve the Master of Potions. Lonny has allowed this. Rink is most happy. Hermy is smart and will help take very good care of the Master."

Severus suppressed a groan. Considering Rink's enthusiasm for this Hermy, he suspected that he'd be hearing the pitter-patter of little elf feet soon. Putting on his most stern expression, or at least stern when it came to dealing with house-elves, he glared down at Rink. "You will train Hermy as you have been taught. I will not tolerate elf-induced punishments, nor will she move or change or clean anything that is out-of-bounds within the class, my rooms or the workrooms. I will hold you responsible for her training. Is that understood?"

Rink bobbed his understanding. "Rink understands. Rink will make sure that Hermy is a good elf for the Master."

Softening his glare, he gave the elf a faint smile. "Good. You may retire. I won't need your services again this evening."

Rink bowed and disappeared.

Feeling herself ready after practicing her stitches on Rink's new pillowcase wardrobe, Hermione pulled the curtains closed around her bed, set a Silencing spell and wards, pulled out her baby book with the sleeping charms, and got to work.

Two hours later, her first night of attempting the spell with the fine, white, silk thread and silver needle, which she'd bought from Agatha, was a complete failure.

Feeling herself better prepared the next night after her dismal first failure, Hermione once again pulled the curtains closed around her bed, set the Silencing spell and wards, pulled out her baby book with the sleeping charms, and got to work, only to discover that she couldn't get her magic to flow into the delicate needle. Her second effort resulted in a snarl of thread that required a sharp pair of scissors to undo and a massive magical backlash headache that required a trip to Madam Pomfrey.

After her second grievous failure, Hermione ended up waiting an extra day before attempting the charmed needlework a third time. She made it halfway through the sewing of the magical sigil before the magic failed when her concentration broke during the stitch-weaving of the spell. That failure left her so drained of magic that she was almost completely useless in Professor Flitwick's charms class the next day.

Tonight was to be her fourth try, and she was beginning to think that maybe it wasn't worth it. Her fingers were cramped from holding the silver needle, her lower back ached from being curled over the fabric, and her eyes stung from trying to see the tiny stitches in the flickering light of wand and candle.

This was harder than she'd originally imagined it would be. Hermione had never realized just how much channeling her magic through her wand enhanced and boosted her power. She had a new appreciation for the effort it took to perform the seemingly simple feats of wandless magic that Professor Dumbledore performed so effortlessly. She was slightly awed at the realization of the depth of his power. Power he hid under a doddering old man routine. Power, it seemed, that she didn't have. Dropping the silky fabric, Hermione let herself fall back against the bed pillows with a growl of frustration.

Crookshanks, in the manner of all wise half-Kneazles, decided that was his cue for a much-needed distraction. Two head butts later, Hermione surrendered to the unrelenting lure of the cat.

Reaching out, she began scratching behind one ginger tufted ear. "Fine, Crooks, you win."

Seeing as how she had a willing and currently captive audience, Hermione poured forth her frustration, safe in the knowledge of her Silencing charm on the drawn bed curtains. "This shouldn't be so hard, Crooks. I've read the books. The spells are simple enough. I'm not even completely tone deaf, so the singing part of the spell should be okay. It can't be because I don't have enough power. Ordinary, everyday witches created these spells to comfort and protect their families; they weren't just used by super powerful uber-witches. Why can't I get it to work?"

Crookshanks, however, wasn't offering up any sage advice.

Heaving an exaggerated sigh, she decided to give it one more shot before turning in for the evening. Pushing a protesting Crookshanks off her chest, she sat up and once again gathered together her fabric, threads and needle.

Gently carding her fingers through the multi-colored strands of thread, she tried to figure out what she was doing wrong. She knew the song spell; she'd practiced the stitches and knew the sigil she'd designed was a good one. She'd chosen both her thread colors and her symbology very carefully when she'd created the magical sign she wanted to embroider. She'd even avoided the more obvious parallels of snake symbols, even though, as a sign of both knowledge and rebirth, they were apt for what she wanted to do.

Instead, she'd chosen an oak leaf for strength and endurance stitched in deepest black, the color of protection. Circling the leaf was a ring of blue stars. The color blue gave protection, peace, and calmness while the star pattern re-emphasized the protection aspect while lending hope and harmony.

It should work.

Pulling Raising a Magical Childcloser, Hermione read back over the section pertaining to sleeping charms, hoping she'd spot what she was doing wrong.

Care must be taken when attempting any type of sleeping charm. The potential for misuse and harm cannot be exaggerated. The spellcaster attempting to make sleeping sheets must remember that they are gifting the recipient with their magic. As the caster creates the magical sigil, they are embodying the symbol with both personal feelings and their own magic. There is no wand acting as an intermediary. This is raw magic and should be treated with the respect it deserves. The caster does not control nor force the use the magic, but instead becomes the living agent of the magic.

Choose your sigil and colors carefully; think about the child in question and all your hopes and dreams that you wish for that child. Absolute belief must be present. Pure intent must be present. It is never enough to simply sing the spell and work the stitches. The spell caster must invest themselves within the spell.

Hermione smoothed the fabric laid across her lap. Belief, intent and giving of herself, she could do that. Taking several deep breaths, she calmed herself, and then reached for the magic within herself, picturing the glowing chakra points and how her magic flowed from them. Picking up the silver needle, she made sure that her threads were smooth and then began to softly sing.Sleep my child and peace attend thee, All through the night

Hermione felt the magic ripple and surge within her as she fixed the image of Professor Snape firmly in her mind. Taking care not to force the power, she sent a tendril of magic down through her fingers and into the silver needle.Guardian Angels God will send thee, All through the night

She thought about the professor's restlessness and the times she's watched him through the Marauder's map make endless rounds through the castle. Hermione's vision became lost in a white hazy, but she was held safe and secure in the magic and did not worry. Still she sang.Soft the drowsy hours are creeping

She thought about the weary slump of the professor's shoulders that only appeared when he thought no one would notice. Lost now in the magic, Hermione never realized when she relinquished control to the thrum of power that swirled both within her and around her.Hill and dale in slumber sleeping

She thought of how she wanted him to rest quietly.I my loved one's watch am keeping, All through the night

Peaceful and soothing.Angels watching, e'er around thee, All through the night

Protected and guarded. Safe from those who would cause him harm.Midnight slumber close surround thee, All through the night

Good dreams.Soft the drowsy hours are creeping

Nightmares banished beyond unbreakable wardsHill and dale in slumber sleepingI my loved one's watch am keeping, All through the night

Still she sang, verses repeating around and around as Hermione poured her trust, her worry for his safety, and her desire to help and protect into her words until with a faint snap the thread, the song and the magic stopped.

Eyes blinking in sudden confusion, Hermione swayed forward, only to catch herself with one hand. She felt as though she'd been run over by a lorry. She trembled with fatigue, while panting softly with the effort she'd been putting forth. Uncurling her fingers, she winced as cramped muscles stretched and tendons popped.

Had it worked? She scrubbed at eyes that felt dry and gritty. Fighting the urge to sleep, Hermione concentrated and managed to lift up the cloth to her bleary eyes, only to stare in surprise at what she'd created. This was the sigil she'd designed. The book had said that the magic could take control and force modifications, but this wasn't a modification. This was a completely new sigil.

Tracing a tremulous hand over the silk thread, she noted the tiny, tight stitches. It was beautiful and intricate, and nothing she should have been able to create.

In shimmering silk embroidery, a lioness crouched, paws outstretched before her. The lioness' coat shone brown and gold, colors representing friendship, strength and health. Her head and ears were up in wary vigilance. Smooth muscles bunched beneath her threaded coat. Between her splayed paws rested a snake done in black and midnight blue, its coiled body heavy and powerful looking.

The lioness guarded while the snake slept.

Not completely sure that she understood what had just happened, Hermione tried to focus. Unfortunately, neither her body nor mind was cooperating. Still sitting upright, her eyes closed. A moment later, she slumped forward, curling her body around the tangled sheet.

Sometime later, Rink appeared with a pop on top of Hermione's bed, fully expecting to see his human helper bent over either a book or over the large cloth that she was working on. He was surprised to find Hermy completely dressed and sound asleep on top of the bedcovers.

"Hermy?" he called softly.

When she didn't answer, Rink banished the tray of sandwiches he carried and dropped to his knees beside the girl. He tapped lightly on her shoulder and was puzzled when she didn't awake. He nudged her again. When this elicited no movement, Rink sat back on his heels and pondered what to do.

He'd seen this type of comatose behavior on more than one occasion from Master Snape. It was usually caused from a severe depletion of magical energy. Rink knew that the Master made a potion once a month that severely drained his energy. Hermy had not told him that the magic she was working on could drain her this way. Humans. They were forever causing themselves undue harm. Rink was positive that without the house-elves, humans would be practically helpless. It was a good thing that Rink had taken on the duty of serving the Young Miss as well as the Master of Potions. She was his responsibility.

His duty clear, Rink did what he did for his other charge on occasions like these. Waving his hand, Rink magicked away Hermy's uniform, and clothed her in the nightdress that he knew she kept hidden beneath her pillow. While the transition was as smooth as Rink could make it, the fact that the girl still did not awake concerned him. The Master usually awoke at this point and fussed at him for being an interfering house-elf.

It wasn't until he straightened out her curled body that Rink found the finished sheet, the new sigil catching the light of the candles hovering over the bed. Rink's eyes light up with delight and he bounced slightly on the bed before he remembered to restrain himself.

"Hermy has mastered the magic," he said around a large grin. He understood now. That the girl was this drained spoke volumes of how much of herself she had invested in the invocation of the protective magic.

Humming to the unconscious girl, Rink got to work. A flick of his wrist nestled her beneath the covers. Another straightened out the books and papers that littered the top of her bed. Rink reverently folded the newly embroidered sheet by hand, before sliding it beneath Hermy's pillow.

Satisfied with his service, Rink released the Silencing spell and wards and blew out the candles. Patting at one of Hermy's exposed arms, he whispered, "Sleep now," and disappeared

 

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