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Ch 24: Four Conversations



 

Author's Notes:

1. Once again, I've heard back from one beta but not the other yet. I'm going to guess that you guys are okay with living with the typos and missing commas if you can have the chapter before anyone else on the internet. Otherwise, if you want the polished version, you'll have to wait until it is posted to Ashwinder. You are again invited to play "Spot Caeria's Mistakes" and let me know about them — or in whitehound's case, "Spot Caeria's Glaring Americanisms."

2. I would also like to point out that this chapter is up in record time (for me.) Watch while I do the Snoopy dance!!!Chapter 23: Four Conversations

"Explain."

Hermione knew she was standing there doing a good approximation of a deer in headlights, but she really didn't want to explain. And why did she forever have to explain things to him? 'Explain. Tell me everything, Miss Granger.' Why couldn't other people like the headmaster explain a few things?

The headmaster!

She'd promised to send a house-elf the minute that Professor Snape regained consciousness. It was grasping onto a procrastination life-line, but Hermione seized it anyway.

"I have to get Professor Dumbledore," she said in a rush, and bolted for the door. Even Gryffindors had the off day of courage, she reasoned as she descended the stairs.

The house-elf dispatched to retrieve Dumbledore arrived with Healer Alverez in tow. Hermione caught Tonks' raised eyebrow at Remus but thankfully neither said anything. Hermione was delighted with Healer Alverez's arrival though. It meant that while the other witch wasn't an official member of the Order, the Healer was at least involved. Plus, her presence meant that she could give Professor Snape another check-up.

"Professor Snape is awake," Hermione said through a big grin as soon as it was obvious that the Headmaster and Healer had oriented themselves to their new surroundings.

Alverez stepped from Dumbledore's side all business-like. "Is he merely awake or is he aware?"

Hermione's grin faltered slightly. "He is aware and already asking for explanations of what has happened."

"Excellent. That bodes well for his full recovery." Hefting her Healer's bag, she gestured Hermione before her. "Come on, then. Best get a look at him."

Placing a hand on her shoulder, Dumbledore stopped her. "I think it best that Miss Granger remain down here, Arrosa, at least until you have been able to do your exam and I have had a chance to speak with Professor Snape."

Hermione expected the Healer to make an argument but Alverez simply narrowed her eyes a bit before nodding. "Perhaps you are correct, in this instance." But turning to Hermione she added, "I will need you upstairs before I leave so I can go over with you Professor Snape's continuing care needs and so I can make sure he will follow your directions. I'm sure Albus will let you know when he is finished with his Potions master."

With a nod towards Albus, the two headed upstairs leaving Hermione in the front parlor. Not knowing what else to do with herself, she slumped down into a settee. As an uncomfortable silence began to grow, Tonks, bless her soul, tried to break the heavy atmosphere.

"Wotcher, Hermione?"

Hermione sent her a grateful smile, one which the other witch returned. It dawned on Hermione that being a Metamorphmagus, that Tonks might know a thing or two about being ostracised by her fellow witches and wizards.

"It's going good, Tonks, thanks."

"Expecting that now Snape's awake that you'll have your hands full with him. Don't expect he'll be a right pleasant patient."

Remus gave Tonks' shoulder a nudge. "Old Snape's never been pleasant," he said with a laugh.

Hermione, back now ramrod straight, glared until Remus's laughter sputtered out. Unwilling to take an adult to task like she would Ron for disrespect to Professor Snape, Hermione rose and headed out of the room. She'd just wait outside Professor Snape's room until Healer Alverez needed her. Behind her she heard Remus inquire to Tonks, "What's bothering Hermione?""Arrosa," Snape hissed in annoyance.

Arrosa just smiled. "Oh, leave off, Severus. I'm not one of your students to be intimated by your growling."

"I'm not trying to be intimidating," he said, pulling at the top sheet covering his body. "I'm trying to maintain my dignity, not to mention a little modesty."

She had the temerity to laugh at him. "Rubbish! As if the sight of your pale, boney arse is going to give me the vapors." She frowned then, her expression showing the real concern she felt. "Seriously, you are too thin, Severus. You need some decent meals and some real rest. A body can only take so much abuse before it simply stops."

For the first time since Albus and Arrosa had entered his room, Severus's combativeness faded away. His eyes flickered from her to where Albus sat in a chair against the far wall. "That is not always possible." He trusted Arrosa, a consummate Slytherin, to read into those few words all the possible nuances of meaning.

He wasn't disappointed, as her lips thinned and her eyes hardened. Severus knew she'd taken his meaning but seeing the sympathy in her expression, he sought to divert her attention from him. Falling back on their longstanding verbal sparring, he snapped, "You have waved your wand. Now pronounce me fit, Healer, so I may get dressed and leave."

Her sympathetic expression slid back into her usual one of brisk, no nonsense competence, though Severus doubted he had dissuaded her with his feeble attempt.

"I'm sorry, Severus, but you're in no condition to go anywhere. Trust me, if you tried to get out of bed right at this moment, you'd be flat on your face before you took two steps. And I assure you — if you're stubborn enough to try — I will neither catch you nor reset that nose of yours when you smash it against the floorboards."

"Ah," he sneered, "there is that delightful bedside manner that made you head of St. Mungo's Spell Damage ward."

She clucked her tongue at him. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Severus." Stowing her wand, she set a small rack of potion vials on the table next to his bed along with a white ceramic pot that was typically used to hold medicinal salves. Arossa caught him eyeing them curiously. She slid easily from mocking banter into the courtesy due a professional colleague.

"Vervain for the pain. Du Zhong for the weakness you are currently suffering. Nerve Tincture to help with the magic depletion you are currently suffering with the added benefit of helping with the pain management. The salve is a combination of Burn Paste with skullcap and licorice root. You have several very nasty spell burns along your arms, legs and across your back."

"Du Zhong, wouldn't Dang Gui be a better choice?"

She gave him a swift glare. "You may know potions, Severus Snape, but I'm the Healer here. I chose Du Zhong because of the associated strengthening properties. Trust me, you are going to need them. You-Know-Who almost killed you. If your Miss Granger hadn't retrieved me when she did, I have no doubt you would be dead now."

Severus frowned. His Miss Granger was his first thought, following almost immediately by: So Granger really had gotten Arrosa? His frown deepened into a scowl. That made no sense. No one in the Order would have let her into the house. He shot a look to Albus who gave a small nod of his head. So it was true. Interesting. He made a mental note to add that topic to his eventual talk with the headmaster.

But first he had to get through with Arrosa. "Fine. Tell me what I need to know and I will be a model patient."

"Model patient, my arse. I'm not asking you for a miracle, Severus. Just follow my recommendations and don't try to do more than you are capable of until your body and magic heal."Severus was tired, a state that brought its own share of personal annoyance since he'd only awakened a little over an hour ago. During that hour he'd been poked, prodded, had a wand waved over him and been forced to drink a shoddily-prepared strengthening potion — a fact for which he'd thoroughly castigated Arrosa for her choice of brewer. The last insult to injury had been the rather lengthy and somewhat vehement lecture of how he was going to take care of himself, he was going to follow Alverez's instructions, and how he was going to allow Miss Granger to take care of him with suffered humility and patience. There had even been threats involved and the entire time Albus had stood calmly by with a most annoying expression of serenity on his face.

As the hour had worn on, it had become a struggle to focus his thoughts, and his body felt heavy, an almost suffocating lassitude that urged him to close his eyes and sleep. It was this, more than anything else, which confirmed for him that his condition really was as serious as Arrosa had intimated.

But Severus had lived most of his life using sheer willpower to overcome the obstacles placed in his life. He would not allow weakness, even his own body's, to determine his course. His only concession was to make himself a little more comfortable, leaning back into the pillows that supported him as we watched the interactions between the headmaster and Arrosa with a lethargic curiosity.

Their sotto voiced conversation — although it was really more argument if the Healer's gestures and body language meant anything — made for an interesting tableau. It was a fascinating exercise to watch their interactions while catching the odd word or two of their conversation.

" . . .I need . . ."

"Old goat! If you . . . sense . . ."

He would have wondered what they were arguing about but every so often Arrosa gestured wildly in his direction so it look little difficulty in surmising that he was the topic of their heated discussion. Severus suppressed a grin as he watched Arrosa thump a pointed finger into the headmaster's chest with one hand while her other remained firmly planted on her hip. Albus wasn't looking so complaisant now that Arrosa had turned her attention to him. It served him right as far as Severus was concerned and only made him more curious about how Arrosa had found her way into the Order.

He had been urging Albus to bring Arrosa into the Order of the Phoenix for a number of years. As one of the most respected Healers at St. Mungo's, a cunning Slytherin, and from an old, established wizarding family, Alverez was in a unique position to both gather useful information while planting false information amongst the families that made up the core financial and political support for the Dark Lord.

Albus had, in the past, always deflected Severus's attempts at recruitment with brushed off comments and side-steps. Severus had always assumed that Albus's reluctance to bring in the brilliant Healer had to do with her being a former member of Slytherin and all the prejudices that went along with being a member of that House. Now, seeing the interactions between the two, Severus realized that Arrosa's exclusion had less to do with House affiliations and more to do with Albus's personal past. His lips twitched again. He had to wonder if Minerva had met Arrosa yet and what the two strongest witches in Albus's life thought about each other.

It was with that delightful image in mind that Severus slipped from drowsy contemplation to full sleep."Severus?" His name, called softly, penetrated the warm cocoon that seemed to encompass him. Part of him urged that he ignore the voice and slip deeper into the embracing darkness. The other part, duty and honour-bound, recognized the headmaster's voice. There was no hesitation as sleep gave way to wakefulness. Severus opened his eyes.

"Forgive me for waking you, Severus. I would not do this if I did not feel that your information is vital."

Severus shrugged, and then winced as the bone-deep bruise across his chest and shoulder twinged in warning. "No, Albus. You were right to wake me. Too many days have passed, and my information may now be critical."

He took a quick look around the room before he continued, old habits of secrecy reasserting themselves.

Albus caught and read that look correctly. "I've sent Alverez out to speak with Miss Granger. We are alone and I've secured this room."

Severus temporary put aside his curiosity in Miss Granger's role in all of this and turned to the more important Order business. "There are definitely things you need to know. The Dark Lord's mental and emotional states before I left were sliding into the desperate. Several of his key plans fell through, pushing him to make a few rash decisions. I believe potential exists there for our use, if the Order can hurry."

He struggled to sit up more fully amongst the pillows, cursing softly under his breath as his body failed to move in the ways he desired. A hand on his shoulder stopped further movement.

"Relax, my boy." Dumbledore was watching him, blue eyes sharp and piercing.

"I am fine, Albus, he said, annoyance creeping into his voice. "The rest did me good." Just the same, he gave up trying to raise himself and settled once more into the pillows. Struggling, he knew, just made himself look all that much weaker.

The headmaster still looked unsure but acquiesced with a nod of his head. "If you are sure, then ready yourself."

Closing his eyes, Severus drew in a deep breath and let himself relax, picturing the still form of the lake within his mind. He had done this so many times over the years that it took but a moment to center himself on that shore. He was no longer even sure when he'd begun using the visual representation of the lake and its surrounds to represent his emotional and mental state. But now, after all these years, the symbology flowed freely and he had no problem interpreting the images and sounds before him.

Alone in his mind, the lake rippled with his thoughts. His emotions and desires manifested themselves in the surroundings. The trees lining the banks moved in a breeze, small scurrying animal sounds could be heard from the underbrush. His own mental image stood upon the shore. Like a conductor before an orchestra, he stretched out his hand. Around him, the noises stopped and trees grew still. Another wave of his ghostly hand and the surface of the lake grew smooth and glassy.

Readying himself, he stepped out into the water. A few steps later the water was up to his waist and then his chest. He continued to walk until the waters closed in over his head. Diving down he swam, breath unneeded, until he floated deep within the lake. There, he sank all those things he did not want the headmaster to see deeper into the murky waters below him. Everything else he brought upwards until the memories flashed like quicksilver fish just beneath the surface, as if the lake were a giant Penseive, simply waiting for someone to touch its surface.

Opening his eyes he caught Albus's gaze, looking deep in the blue of his eyes. "Begin."

"Legilimens."

The power of Albus's spell hit and he struggled to keep his own mind open and unshielded as every instinct sought to throw up barriers and freeze the lake to protect himself. For a moment, a wind roared through the mental landscape and the trees bowed before the onslaught but Severus regained control and the winds died down until only stillness remained.

Severus was no longer alone in his head. He waited as Albus touched each of the memories that had passed since the last time they'd met — memories that Albus could now experience first hand.

He felt the moment that Albus retreated from his mind, the pressure of the headmaster's magic easing from his senses. He did not immediately bring himself up, but continued to drift beneath the surface of the lake for a minute, enjoying the calm. Gradually he relaxed his hold and thoughts rose around him, churning the waters and bringing him up. As he cleared the surface, he opened his eyes. He almostexpected to see the blue of the sky, instead he found Albus's sad blue eyes.

"Albus?"

"I realize you are tired, but there are a few things we need to discuss before I turn you back over to Arrosa."

"Concerning Miss Granger."

"Very much concerning the young lady, I'm afraid."

Severus frowned.

"I'm so sorry, Severus." Albus rested a hand on his arm where it rested against the sheet. "It is due to Miss Granger's efforts, and my own, of course, that Tom has done this to you, which in turn directly relates to why Miss Granger will be working to take care of you while you regain your strength."

"Perhaps it would be best if you filled me in on all that has happened since I was here last."Hermione paced outside of Snape's room, her steps quick and her turns jerky as her agitation escaped from the control she had clamped on it.

She was still angry with Remus's cavalier attitude in regards to Professor Snape. On top of that, Healer Alverez had come out of Professor Snape's room leaving the headmaster behind. Alverez had retreated down to the kitchens to get herself something to eat until she could get back in to see Snape.

That left Professor Snape and the headmaster together which led to her other reason for her agitation.

I'm bloody well and royally screwed. It was a sign of just how nervous she was that she didn't even think to chide herself for her internal language.

Maybe she should have waited before getting Dumbledore and told her side of the story before Snape met with headmaster. Not that she was all that thrilled at the idea of telling Snape her side — her side, the Order's side, Dumbledore's side — it really didn't make much difference at this point. She was screwed no matter which side you took it from.

She couldn't even listen in because Dumbledore had thrown up a Silencing Spell. She spun on her heel and headed back down the hallway as she contemplated all the things that Dumbledore could be telling Snape.

"Hermione?"

Hermione jumped with a small squeak, pulling her wand from her pocket as she spun around. "Geez, Ron!" she yelled. "Don't do that! You scared me half to death."

Shuffling his feet a bit, Ron gave her a rueful grin. "Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you."

Slipping his hands in his pockets, he shrugged. "I . . . you know, just wanted to see how you were doing. Professor Dumbledore's been in there with Snape a long time."

"Professor Snape, Ron," she corrected automatically.

He shrugged again, the rebuke rolling off him. "What do you think they're talking about?"

Since answering 'me,' sounded a bit too arrogant in her head, Hermione went with a broader answer. "I suspect that Professor Snape is telling Dumbledore about Voldemort and why he tried to kill him. And the headmaster has things to catch Professor Snape up on. A lot has happened in the last couple of weeks."

"Think he'll tell him about you?"

Hermione grimaced. "Of that, I have no doubt."

They both fell silent, Hermione staring curiously at Ron, and Ron staring at anything but Hermione.

Finally he spoke. "Do you think he'll tell Snape about Harry?"

And there it was. The thing they didn't talk about and the real reason Ron was standing in the hallway. Hermione felt something squeeze her heart, making it difficult to breathe. It felt like betrayal. "No, I don't think the headmaster will say anything to Professor Snape about Harry. He knows how the two of them dislike each other."

But that doesn't mean I won't mention Harry to Professor Snape.

"Hermione—"

"It will be okay, Ron. We'll figure something out."

His expression was doubtful, but Ron nodded anyway. "Yeah, we will."

Ron shuffled his feet again, tracing one foot along a crack running down one of the floorboards and Hermione knew he was about to make his escape. A wave of sadness and something almost like homesickness hit her, to know that she and Ron could no longer talk just as themselves. The only real thing they had left between them was Harry, and he just wasn't enough anymore.

"Well, good luck then. I don't think Snape is going to want a student helping him get better. Don't let the great bat get you down."

Ron retreated back down the hallway before should could correct his disrespect.Although Hermione was expecting it, when the door to Professor Snape's room opened, she was still startled into jumping. At least this time she spared herself the undignified squeak. Dumbledore stood framed in the doorway, his countenance both troubled and tired before what Hermione now knew to be a mask of geniality slipped over his features hiding his true thoughts. Seeing him, she felt a flash of guilt for her recent uncharitable thoughts of him. The role he played was just as stressful, if not as dangerous, as Professor Snape's. Yet still, that annoying inner voice snidely pointed out, Dumbledore at least had a circle of friends to fall back on when he needed to know he wasn't alone.

When did I become such a cynic?

"Ah, Miss Granger, thank you for waiting."

Hermione plastered a smile on her face for the headmaster's benefit but some twist in Dumbledore's eyes made her wonder if perhaps the headmaster didn't see through her mask as she was beginning to see through his. Stepping out into the hall, he carded his fingers through his beard, his eyes bright upon her. Hermione, though, found that his regard wasn't nearly as panic inducing as Snape's could be. And when Dumbledore didn't call her out, Hermione kept her silence.

Strangely enough, she got the feeling that pleased him, for he reached out to lay a soft hand on her shoulder. "I realize that while Professor Snape's care is not what you would have desired, I do have the utmost confidence that you will take very good care of him." He paused, and then added, "Regardless of how difficult the circumstances can be."

Hermione guessed that was Dumbledore's subtle way of describing her professor's more acidic personality. "I'll do my best, sir."

He gave her a soft smile. "Yes, I think you will, indeed. Please stay only a few moments as I'm afraid that between Healer Alverez and me, we have over tired Professor Snape. After your visit, please let Healer Alverez know you are ready."

"Of course, sir."

That seemed to satisfy the headmaster and he continued down the hallway to the stairs, leaving Hermione alone.

The door before her was cracked open, spilling a flickering bar of candlelight into the hall. She could hear nothing from inside and supposed that Snape was waiting for her. Briefly wondering if there was a serpent equivalent to bearding a lion in its den, Hermione stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

She was several steps into the room and then stopped, keeping her eyes down on the floorboards in front of her. She fully expected that Snape was going to tear into her any moment for her more reckless behavior over the last few days. Snape, however, didn't seem to be in any hurry to start the conversation, and the silence began to stretch.

Hermione fidgeted impatiently, shuffled her feet and dragged one shoe tip along a floor board.

Oh God, I'm channeling Ron, she realized.

Planting her feet firmly, she straightened her shoulders and linked her hands in front of her before raising her eyes to where her professor lay in the bed. She took one look at her professor and any nervousness still swirling around in the pit of her stomach burned to a crisp as anger swept through her. The man had awakened but two hours ago, yet looked five times worse than when he'd first opened his eyes, demanding answers.

He was also sound asleep.

It seemed she'd been given a reprieve, at least until morning when she knew that Snape would be awake and demanding answers again.Harry watched through hooded eyes as Hermione checked over the breakfast tray presented to her by the elf that had taken over the kitchen at Grimmauld Place. Her fussing about the food that would eventually be given to Snape roused the ever-present anger that seemed to always be with him nowadays. In fact, her seemingly good cheer about the bastard's waking up really pissed him off. There were days when he didn't really feel the burn of the anger, but today wasn't one of those days. Today, the anger throbbed in steady time with every beat of his heart, sounding out all the fears and injustice and blind unfairness that surrounded his life.

He never asked to be The Boy That Lived. He never asked to be targeted by Voldemort. He didn't want the responsibility and he didn't want the looks when members of the Order gathered: the pity and the desperate hope in their eyes. He was never sure which one was worse, which one fed the anger that seemed to bubble inside of him more.

Leaving the kitchen before he said something he knew he shouldn't, Harry ignored the look of confusion on Ron's face. At least from him it wasn't the hated pity and hope combination. Confusion Harry could safely ignore, which he did now. He wasn't surprised when Ron didn't follow him. Then again, after their yelling match the last time Ron had attempted to follow Harry, the likelihood of Ron coming after him now was pretty slim.

Still a part of Harry wished Ron would follow, wished that Hermione would stop defending Snape. Of course, he also wished that Voldemort would choke on a chicken bone and drop dead so they could all go back to living ordinary, quiet lives. Harry knew that his wishes rarely ever came true.

Heading upstairs towards the attic, he passed the portrait of Mrs. Black, one hate-filled, painted eye glaring out at the world through a crack in her worn velvet curtains. Harry glared back, and mercifully the portrait stayed silent, as he continued his trek up the stairs. Instead of stopping on the floor that housed the bedrooms, he continued going upwards, the stair treads becoming darker and grimier as he reached the door at the top.

Beyond this door another set of steep, narrow stairs lead upwards to the Black house attic. Shouldering open the door, Harry stepped into narrow, low-ceilinged space. Chests and trunks of all sizes were stacked haphazardly under the eaves. Drop sheets shrouded the forms of tables and chairs seemingly scattered at random through what little space was left. Everything was covered in layers of dust and grime except for one small oasis of relative cleanliness that surrounded a battered chair and table.

It was there that Harry had established his own Sanctum Santorum, his very own Fortress of Solitude — a thought that never failed to pull a snort of amusement from him. They all, from Dumbledore to Voldemort, had cast him in the role of superhero and savior. A role he didn't want. Every time he tried to pull away he got pulled back in. He'd often felt that he was acting out the role of tortured superhero in Dudley's old comic books, marching from panel to panel under the direction of some unknown author.

Falling back into the faded brocade of the chair, Harry coughed slightly at the dust that arose on impact, then scowled, his expression darkening. The author, or authors, certainly weren't unknown anymore. Everything in his life had been orchestrated by Professors Dumbledore and Vector. He didn't get his father's cloak because it was his father's or because it was now rightly his, but because he neededit.

That shining moment when he'd pulled Gryffindor's sword from the Sorting Hat to defeat the Basilisk and he'd felt proud and honoured, as if Godric Gryffindor was watching over him, it had all been another lie, just another setup. Again, just something he needed to save the day.

What else had been manipulated and twisted so that things fell the way that others wanted them to? Where is my choice?

Pulling his wand out of his pocket, Harry measured the length of smooth wood with his fingers. They looked at him as if with a single wave of his wand he was going to save them all. I don't even know if I want to save them all anymore. But fresh on the heels of that thought came the shame and guilt. Voldemort was evil. He and his Death Eaters had killed hundreds of people. They had destroyed lives and homes and families. He had destroyed his family. I do care.

He did care. They had made it so that he had to care. He had to save them all. That's what pissed him off the most really. He would have cared on his own. They didn't have to make him care.

But it really didn't matter anymore. He was going to kill Voldemort or Voldemort was going to kill him.

Running the tip of his wand between his eyes, Harry pressed hard at the tension that gathered there. Have to save them all.

Either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives.

It was the phrase that ran through his mind every day, every hour. He was going to become a murderer. He wasn't sure if it even mattered that Voldemort was an even worse killer, because Dumbledore and Vector and everyone else were training and shaping him to be the killer who went and killed the other killer.

His wand tip dug harder into his skin. I'll do it. I'll kill the bastard.

Reaching down between the side of the chair and the cushion, Harry pulled out a thin book bound in pale leather. Its faded gilt title read, Statues of Wizarding Law, Volume XXXVIII Additions of Unforgivables. It was a rather unassuming little book and Harry had come across it by accident while doing some rather half-hearted research for one of Professor Binn's History essays.

The book detailed the Wizengamot session when the Cruciatus, Imperius and Killing Curses were instated in British wizarding law as Unforgivables. The Court had deliberated in session for nine days. Each day's questions and answers and debates were written out in dry, but thorough detail. The best part, at least for Harry, was the section on the Killing Curse, as magical theory scholars and people who had actually used the Curse explained its use and limitations and the best and most effective way of casting it.

Flipping to the section he'd marked with a piece of twine, Harry cast about the room until he spotted a spider up in the eaves. Picturing Voldemort in his mind, he gathered his hate around himself. Next he added Pettigrew to the mental image, and then finally Snape.

He flicked his wand. "Avada –"

Ch 25: The Conversation

 

Author's Notes:

Thanks to Potion Mistress and Keladry for the beta assistance and to Whitehound for the Brit-picking.

This would be the chapter that many of you have been waiting for. After this chapter is over all the talking is done with and we are back into the action. Thank God!Chapter 24: THE Conversation

The light woke him up. Severus blinked several times, squinting in the unfamiliar glow. As a dungeon dweller for most of his life, being awakened by morning light wasn't something he was particular familiar with. Not something I want to become familiar with, he thought with a grumble.

Giving a cautious stretch of his body, Severus winced as multiple aches and pains made themselves known with a vengeance. Considering the severity of his injuries, he was rather surprised he'd slept as well as he had. He didn't even remember having any nightmares, a rather odd occurrence since vivid dreams and nightmares were an uncontrollable side-effect of the often-times ruthless memory suppression and control he practiced on a daily basis. Of course, the combination of healing spells, potions, and his injuries probably contributed to his sleeping the whole night through.

Pulling the sheet up a little higher, he thought wistfully of his grey flannel nightshirt. But he knew all too well Arrosa's reasoning for keeping him in this indecent state of undress. Even now the friction of the soft sheets was like the rasp of an abrasive against his over-sensitized nerve endings. The extra weight of even bedclothes would be too much to bear for long.

As the light steadily increased he took note of his surroundings, something he'd only been able to give a cursory glance to the previous evening. As with most of the rooms he'd seen at Grimmauld Place, this bedroom was narrow and rather dark and dingy, though if you looked closely you could see the remnants of its former elegance. It did, however, show the signs of a recent attempt at both cleaning and brightening. The windows letting in that appalling light had been cleaned, and the ubiquitous spider webs that seemed to cover most of the house had been cleared from the corners. Even the hardwoods had been polished, although they still showed a lifetime of wear and tear.

In the far corner of the room a pallet had been set up, the heaped blankets scrunched up into something that resembled a nest. From the spindly leg and overly-long toes poking beyond the confines of the blankets, he saw that Rink had taken up his duties as his Severus' personal house-elf again. It went a long way towards explaining the cleanliness of the room.

House-elves. He would have to remember to question the girl — call her Granger, he reminded himself — about the house-elves. He had so many questions there, starting with how she'd come to the realization that the elves could help the Order, to how she'd managed to get the elves to acknowledge the Grangers as a House. It had been several hundred years, at least, since a new House line had been established. Albus had been nearly clapping his hands in demented glee while conveying that bit of news to Severus the night before.

Who would have ever thought that house-elves would be the key to spoiling so many of the Dark Lord's plans lately? That it was Granger, Muggle-born and champion of Elven rights who was in the middle of it all gave the whole thing a rather Slytherinesque sense of irony. And just one more bit of proof that the Fates truly hate me. It is my own student who brings me down.

As the light grew steadily brighter, Severus caught movement from Rink. It seemed that the fellow didn't particularly care for the light either, as with a short groan, the elf flipped over away from the light and pulled a corner of a blanket over his head. Severus grinned in sympathy. He rather wished he could do the same. However, at this point, he wasn't even sure he could lift his arms over his head, much less turn over onto his side.

And there he was, back to his current predicament. Damn Albus and the Dark Lord both. At least Albus, in a moment of demented kindness, had saddled him with Granger as a nurse-maid. He wouldn't have put it past the man to have thought about putting Potter on him as some kind of warped bonding experience. As if either one of them would have lived through that.

Glancing at the window, he gauged the amount of light coming through. Granger would be here soon, over-achieving irritant that she was. Though according to Arrosa, she was his over-achieving irritant. He supposed that made all the difference. Best start the day now, though, before his irritant arrived.

"Rink," he called.

The lump under the blanket stirred and grumbled a bit but no house-elf emerged. Eyes narrowed and lips pursed, Severus contemplated the mound of blankets. A slow, rather evil grin spread across his face.

"Rink!" he snapped, the word sounding like the crack of a whip.

One rumpled house-elf shot straight up in the air, knobby knees and elbows flailing. Severus quickly hid his grin behind his usual scowl.

"Sir?" Rink squeaked, ears quivering at full attention.

His need for amusement satisfied, Severus gave a short nod and said with just the lightest trace of feigned annoyance. "Your assistance is needed. I have little doubt that Granger will be pounding on my door shortly."

Surprisingly enough, the house-elf looked rather affronted at his comment. Interesting.

"Miss has been taking good care of the Master."

"I'm sure that she has," he replied dryly. "However, I will need help with my morning ablutions before Granger arrives."

Thankfully, Rink took his meaning without him having to spell out the problem in all the gory details. He'd be damned if he gave up all his dignity, and with a female student at that.Hermione fussed with the breakfast tray that she'd just been handed. From beneath her lashes she could see Harry glaring at her from his side of the table and knew that she was, again, the cause of his temper. This time, she just couldn't find it in her to care. Harry, for all his sullen glaring, just couldn't hold her attention this morning. She had far more intimidating dragons to confront. Truthfully, she was rather relieved when Harry got up and stalked off.

Turning away, she gave one last glance to the tray, although she didn't really need to bother with it back to the tray she gave it one last look, although she didn't have to bother. The house-elf in charge of the kitchen had made Snape's breakfast to Hermione's exact specifications. The food was bland, and just the sort of thing she'd seen Snape actually eating at Hogwarts. Not to mention, it was all food that would be light enough for a man who'd just spent several days on nothing but broths and medical potions.

Still she fidgeted, arranging and rearranging the cloth napkin on the tray. She knew why she was having an attack of nerves. There would be no amnesty for her once she took the tray upstairs.

It was finally time to talk to Snape. No more delays. No more last minute reprieves. No more evasions.Settling back into the pillows with Rink's assistance with a groan, Severus realized he might be even worse than Arrosa had given him to believe. Groaning, he allowed Rink to help him settle back into the pillows. Severus realized even the mild exertion on his part to use the facilities had left him sweating and gasping for breath. Taking a deep breath, he held it for a count of ten and then slowly let it out. God, he despised being weak. If he'd had any doubts about needing Granger's assistance, they had been dispelled.

Knock. Knock.

He gave a soft snort of amusement. Speak of the devil and she will appear.

Dismissing Rink with a wave of his hand he called, "Come in, Granger."

The door opened to the girl balancing a tray of what was probably his breakfast against her hip and looking positively twitchy. He knew the signs well and could also tell she was deliberately trying to appear calm and unconcerned. He gave her points — at least mentally — at her half-way decent attempt.

The rather remarkable thing though, was while she was nervous, she quite obviously was not afraid. Severus knew fear — he knew the sight of it reflected in another's eyes, knew the cloying stench of it in the air and the taste of it on his tongue far more intimately than he ever wanted to. Another point of respect earned, he decided, since he could count on one hand the people who weren't, on some level, afraid of him.

For a moment he could almost see, like a superimposed image, the woman the girl would become — daring and bold as any Gryffindor but with a keen and dangerous intelligence behind her unassuming brown eyes. He found it a curiously appealing image, especially knowing that the potential of what she could be rested in his hands. A blink of an eye later though and she was the girl again, nervously chewing on her bottom lip and waiting for on him to acknowledge her.

"Am I looking that bad, Granger?" he asked wryly. He was rewarded with a flush of embarrassment as she jumped guiltily at being caught staring.

"It's just that . . . ." Her words trailed off with a wince.

Amused, he watched her fidget with the tray, shifting it to her other hip. No doubt she was trying to decide on the best way to answer him without also offending him. He'd seen himself in the bathroom mirror. He was well aware that he looked half-dead.

"Forgive me, sir, but you look like shite and you didn't look this bad yesterday."

"It's to be expected. Yesterday was rather draining."

He gave her an obvious perusal from her hair down to her shoes, amused again when it caused her to squirm. "Well, are you planning on feeding me or just standing there?"

She jumped as if he'd snarled at her and he was hard-pressed to contain his laughter. Twitting her was obviously going to be as much fun, if not more, than winding up Albus and Minerva.

Planting her feet firmly, she straightened her shoulders and held the tray in front of her.

Basic Gryffindor gathering of courage. Next would come a frontal assault. He pursed his lips in an effort not to smile as that would completely ruin the affect he was aiming for, but it was a struggle.

Her jaw clenched once. "I'm here to provide you with breakfast." She held out the tray. "I hope it will meet with your approval."

This time she didn't wait for an invitation but brusquely set the tray to hovering over his blanket-covered lap.

He glanced down at the tray: a poached egg and some kind of thin porridge. No coffee but from the colour and smell, he'd guess some kind of herbal tea.

He gave an inaudible sigh of relief. Nothing on the tray was likely to send him retching. He'd have a hard time trying to explain that to Granger and she, no doubt, would rat him out to Alverez. He'd be damned if he'd give up all control.

Just to see her reaction he asked, "You aren't going to feed me?"

Her entire body twitched.

Oh yes, definitely more fun than Minerva, he decided. "Nevermind, I'll do it,' he said loftily, as if making some grand sacrifice on.

He hid a smirk behind a sip of tea when she dropped into the bedside chair, her body language stiff and controlled.

He concentrated on his food for a few moments, willing his hand holding the utensil not to shake. As the silence lengthened, he wondered how long it would be before she cracked. He glanced down at his plate, he'd guessed before he finished his eggs and congratulated himself as she broke as he was scooping up the last bit.

"Would you like the window open for a bit of fresh air?"

It was painfully obvious from her sudden cringe that was not what she really intended to say. Silence, Severus had found, did wonders when it came to making normally self-possessed wizards and witches prattle like idiots. For two seconds he contemplated snapping at her for that bit of idiocy before he stopped himself. However, it didn't mean he had to go easy on her. Let's see what the girl is really made of.

He took a sip of his tea while giving her a considering look. "Keep it closed, Granger," he finally said and took another sip.

It was obviously not what she was expecting if her gob-smacked expression was anything to go by. Some compulsion made her open her mouth again. "If you're sure . . . I mean, it wouldn't take but a moment to open it up for you."

Severus stared at her, carefully concealing his thoughts.

"So, right," she finally said, casting her eyes anywhere but at him. "No window."

She fell silent again but he could practically read her thoughts as they raced across her expressive face: He wasn't acting like himself. He wasn't yelling. He wasn't telling her what many kinds of an idiot she was. Where was the lecture? Where was the disappointment? Where were the 'why didn't you think, Miss Granger?' scathing, ego-puncturing comments?

Definitely more entertaining than he'd originally thought. Seeing her shoulders straighten minutely, he headed her off before she could gather her courage again. "On second thought, crack it."

"What?"

"The window, Granger?" he indicated with a jerk of his head, his expression one that he usually reserved for dealing with first-years . . . or Neville.

"Oh right, the window." She headed to the window in complete bewilderment, oblivious to his smirk behind her. Once done, she returned to stand in the middle of the room.

Of course, he couldn't tweak her too much too soon or she'd get suspicious and there would go his fun. It was probably time he got on with the interrogation she was no doubt expecting.

Pushing the tray to the side of the bed, he shifted on the pillows until he found a comfortable spot. "Well?"

At her confused look, he gave her an aggrieved sigh. "I have heard Dumbledore's version of events. I have heard Alverez's version of events. I have not heard your version of events. Start with the house-elves, move onto that singularly idiotic dash to St. Mungo's to get Healer Alverez, and end with your forced detention of serving me."

"It's not detention," she snapped, before adding a belated, "sir."

He made no comment, but raised one brow, his expression faintly mocking, well aware of how the gesture annoyed her . . . and just about everyone else he knew, as well.

She resumed her seat across from him, tucking her fingers rather curiously under her thighs. "I didn't do all that much with the house-elves, you know."

"False modesty doesn't become you. With your involvement of the house-elves, you have single-handedly upset the balance of the house-elf Family Lines and their ties to the oldest established wizarding families. You have angered the Dark Lord, for their use — although at this point he does not yet realize that it is their use — has greatly upset several of his plans. You have very nearly caused my death, and you've managed to throw the entire Order into disarray. Truly Granger, I do not think even Potter, at his most annoying, has managed to upset so many tea carts all at once."

"Harry isn't . . . oh, nevermind," she huffed, before switching back to the real topic of the conversation. "It wasn't like that. Really it wasn't. I've been interested in the house-elves for a number of years."

"I am well aware of your painfully dismal efforts with SPEW."

"That's S.P.E.W. And my efforts weren't dismal," she said in outraged defence. "Besides, it was those efforts which got me noticed by the Hogwarts matriarch, Lonny." Her annoyance at him faded into exasperation for the house-elves. "I had no idea that she was going to give me — my family, that is — a house-elf line. I'm still not sure I really even know what that means," she said, throwing up her hands.

Taking a deep breath, she tucked her fingers back under her before continuing. "I had noticed that the elves' magic is different from ours and that they weren't confined by regular wards or anti-Apparation spells, so it made sense to ask them to help. They agreed."

She fell silent for a moment before asking quietly, "Did he really hurt you because of me?"

"Gryffindors and their guilt complexes," he sighed. At her continued look of distress, he broke a long standing tradition and sought to explain. "The Dark Lord is unaware that the house-elves are helping the Order by spiriting away his intended targets. House-elves don't even register in most wizards' awareness. It would be unfathomable to a wizard that a house-elf could, or even would, do as they have been. To that end, the Dark Lord saw fit to send me back to the Order to discover Dumbledore's secret defence." He gave an indifferent shrug. "So, the method of my return was simply an amusement for him and is not because of you."

Interestingly enough, Granger went white at his dismissive comment.

"He . . . he nearly killed you!"

Monetarily surprised at her sputtering outrage on his behalf, he soon found himself laughing, at least until a sharp pain lanced across bruised and still healing ribs. He wrapped one arm tightly around his middle and met her gaze. "Don't waste your indignation on my behalf. I am the Order's spy, Granger. I am the Dark Lord's spy. I have neither past nor future. I have only the present. And in this present, I am alive and still able to continue with the tasks placed before me."

"But-"

"Enough," he said, slicing his hand through the air. "Tell me what you did with Alverez."

She didn't want to stop the conversation. He could see that in the rigid line of her back and the way her fingers were now gripping hard to her legs but her supposed sympathy made him uncomfortable in ways he didn't want to examine. Caring ultimately meant that someone got hurt. Caring meant you started thinking about futures and plans and dreams. He'd given up dreams, and he had no future.

"Alverez?" he asked, when she seemed reluctant to begin.

A fine tremor went through her accompanied by a muffled noise of frustration that was followed closely by a sigh. He'd seen that reaction enough times from Minerva to know that Granger would, reluctantly, do as he requested.

"When you were injured no one seemed to be doing anything. I was upset and I talked to Dumbledore and he said that Madam Pomfrey was away." Her hands clenched tight against her legs again. "You were dying and I just couldn't sit around and . . . and . . . twiddle my thumbs. Our visit to Healer Alverez popped into my head. The next thing I knew I was out the door."

"With no plan?"

She shook her head. "No."

"With no idea on how to get Alverez in to see me."

"No," she admitted again, looking rather embarrassed. "The Fidelus Charm didn't even occur to me. It was actually the Healer who thought of the Somnambul Charm."

"So, with no thought to the danger that you were putting everyone in the Order into, including your precious Potter, you went haring off to St. Mungo's."

She flushed a dull red, she shoulders slumping. "Yes."

"I see."

The silence grew again between them until Granger once again forced the conversation. "You aren't yelling at me."

He let out an amused chuff of air. "Should I be yelling?"

"Yes. Well . . . I mean . . . yes. You always-" she stopped then started again. "I went against Dumbledore's orders. I endangered the Order. I lied. You said I needed to think and I didn't. I reacted. And now you aren't yelling when you should, and you're disappointed in me. And you probably don't want to teach me anymore. And you . . . ."

"Are you done?"

Granger stumbled mid-tirade at his interruption.

"I . . . you . . . yes."

"Good. You did several things well. You did several things not so well. You handled my arrival at Grimmauld Place, a crisis situation, with aplomb.

Granger, I'm not trying to teach you to apply strict logic to every situation. People are rarely logical, even when it is in their best interest. Nor do they react as the textbooks say they will. And ultimately, that is not the point of what I'm trying to teach you.

It is not a test. There is no right or wrong. Much to my horror, you are a Gryffindor. You are going to act like one. But there is nothing wrong with combining that with what some might term 'Slytherin sensibilities' — an act of thinking about what you are doing and what others are doing. I want you to think beyond the rules and outside of the books. Above all, I want you to consider the myriad outcomes that can result from but a single action. There are always consequences. I want you to learn to choose the best of those consequences. So, tell me what you did that began the chain of wrong."

"I went to get Healer Alverez without permission."

He rolled his eyes and she flushed again. "The beginning, Granger. Going after Alverez wasn't your first mistake."

When she hesitated, he answered for her. "You left the house without telling anyone where you were going. You could have been captured. The Order would have not known where to even begin looking for you. I can assure you, having the Dark Lord dump your bloodied body at my feet to deliver to Potter would not have made me happy. Now, start at the beginning and go through each step where you had a decision to make and tell me if it was the right decision or the wrong one."

"You want to walk through everything?"

"Were you not placed at my every beck and call? You have something else you need to be doing?"

She flushed a bit at his sarcasm, but then her eyes flashed in annoyance and something that might — if he stretched — be humour. He found himself wondering what it would be like to have someone besides Albus who 'got him.' But he quickly squashed that fragile desire for connection. It was that caring again. Caring would get him killed one day if he wasn't careful.

"No, sir. I don't have anything else to do and you know full well that I am here to take care of you."

"Good. Then begin."

Granger ducked her head, but not before he saw her eyes roll. Must remember to get her for that later.She was completely knackered.

Tired to the point where she wasn't even really paying attention as she ran her finger along the spines of the books arrayed along the shelf in the library at Grimmauld Place. She wasn't really reading them, more waiting to see which one leapt out at her. A somewhat dangerous thought, she realized, as these were wizarding books and it wasn't entirely impossible for one to actually reach out and grab her. Truth was, she was too tired to care. So, idly musing on the nature of potentially grabby books, Hermione continued her perusal, trying to find a book that she thought might keep Professor Snape occupied during his confinement.

She couldn't even claim to be tired from doing something strenuous. All she'd done was answer questions from Professor Snape. A lot of questions . . . whose answers had inevitably, it seemed, led to even more questions.

The day had only been paused for food and medicinal potions, and then it had been back to the interrogation. And it had been an interrogation. The Aurors and Scotland Yard had nothing on Severus Snape when he was intent on finding an answer. Taking her NEWTS wouldn't have been that gruelling.

She was fairly sure her brain was now the consistency of porridge . . . the lumpy kind with raisins.

To make it all worse, she was fairly sure the man thought she was entirely stupid. She'd done nothing right. Well, an honest part of her spoke up, she'd kept him alive, but after that, she'd done nothing right. He'd obviously been completely disappointed in her. And just when she thought she'd been making headway into earning some respect with him.

It was just so confusing dealing with him. He had the ability to make her want to scream in frustration and yet, two seconds later she'd think he was funny, in a completely dark and twisted sort of way. It was a rather frustrating reaction and she had no idea how to deal with it. Harry and Ron usually either sent her shrieking or made her laugh. It was never both.

And thinking about Snape got her nowhere and just succeeded in churning up the porridge between her ears.

Her nail scratched along a leather bound book on herbs. No, she decided. Not this one.

House-hold charms? Definitely not.

"Miss Granger?"

Hermione turned away from the bookshelf. "Professor Vector. Good evening."

Vector gave a nod to the shelves. "Trying to find something to read?"

"For Professor Snape, actually."

Vector chuckled. "Good luck with that one. Try something in magical theory. It should keep him occupied for a while and out of your hair."

"Thank you. I'll try that."

"If you don't mind my saying, Miss Granger, you look a little tired."

Hermione couldn't stop the half-hearted snort that escaped at Vector's words. "Sorry, Professor. I am tired. Professor Snape had a lot of questions today and he's very thorough."

"Thorough? I believe the word you are looking for is relentless. I've worked arthimantic equations for some of Professor Snape's potion experiments. Hufflepuffs aren't the only ones with tenacious badger tendencies."

Hermione choked and coughed as a vision of Snape dressed in canary yellow and black sprang to mind.

"Yes," Vector said, eyes gleaming with mischief, "thinking of him as a Hufflepuff does that to me too."

When Hermione laughed, Vector gave her a smile. "There's a girl. Don't let Professor Snape wear you down. I'll even tell you a secret: his bite is nowhere near as bad as his bark."

Hermione shook her head. "Thank you, Professor." Then pausing, she asked, "Professor?"

"Hmm?"

"I just wanted to tell you that your matrix the other night was . . . I don't even have words for that. The numerical charts, the equations, they . . . I can't even begin."

Vector's humour faded and she stared at Hermione a moment until Hermione was reminded of being under the unrelenting regard of Professor Snape.

"Would you like to see the calculations, Miss Granger?"

"Really?" she asked in surprise.

Vector laughed again. "Miss Granger, I think you are the only one in this house who would be excited to see the Arthimancy equations that make up the Order Matrixes."

"Arthimancy has always been my favourite subject at Hogwarts."

Vector was giving her that look again, but Hermione, suddenly not tired anymore, was too excited by the thought of being able to see Professor Vector's equations to give it much thought.

CH 25: History Lessons

 

Once again I've heard back from one beta but not the other one yet. As I'm an impatient sort I'm jumping the gun and posting without one beta's comments. Those of you who get a thrill at the opportunity of spotting mistakes are welcome to point them out and they will be duly corrected. Those of you who prefer clean and corrected versions of things will have to wait until I hear back from beta #2 and the story is posted at Ashwinder.

I would also just like to say — yeah me for sticking with the New Year's resolution and thanks to all those kind souls who sent chocolate cookie recipes and muses. The cookies are tasty and the muses helpful.

Thanks to Potion Mistress and Keladry for the beta work and Whitehound for the Brit-picking.Chapter 25: History Lessons

When Hermione entered Snape's room the next morning, breakfast tray in hand, she was determined that today she'd make a better showing of herself than she'd done yesterday. She was going to be mature and self-possessed. Yesterday she'd felt like she was always one step behind him. Snape was not going to rattle her today.

"Granger."

She crooked a small smile at his bland, rather monotone greeting. 'Not a morning person' didn't even begin to cover Severus Snape. Then again, it was awfully light in the room for someone used to darker realms. No wonder he's out of sorts. And with the no magic restrictions on him, he can't fix it himself and heaven help if he showed any weakness and asked for assistance. Idiot, although the last was thought with a fair amount of amused tolerance.

Handing over his breakfast tray, she headed over to the window. Debating for two seconds, she gave a swish of her wand and conjured a pair of medium-weight curtains. Immediately the room went from cheery, but rather blinding, to a more muted glow.

She didn't get any verbal thanks for her foolish wand-waving but she did note the softly-voiced sigh of appreciation. Hermione mentally chalked one up for S.N.O.R.T.

Keeping her manner subdued in deference to his usual morning grumpiness, Hermione went about checking the medicines Healer Alverez had left. Yesterday had been a potions-only day, but today would involve both potions and the salve that had to be spread across Professor Snape's spell burns.

She wasn't looking forward to that, feeling sure that Professor Snape would protest when it came time to treat him. Truth be told, it was going to be an uncomfortable situation for them both. While Hermione did her level best to forget that Snape was unclothed beneath his covering sheets, the thought tended to pop up at the oddest times. The fact that she was going to be spreading salve on his bare skin was going to mean that forgetting wasn't an option. She was going to be mature about the whole thing, even if it killed her. . . or he killed her, whichever came first.

Inventory complete, she palmed the small blue container of salve and returned to what she thought of as her chair. With nothing to occupy her mind though, the silence stretched and gathered around her in an oppressive weight.

For the first time since setting down the tray, Hermione saw Snape look up at her. He then glanced down at his plate and then back up at her, a calculating light in his eyes.

A bit of indignation rose. Really, what was he thinking — that I'd poisoned his eggs or something?

Resisting the urge to make a face at him, she cast about for something to distract her attention. Why didn't he talk? Ron and Harry were always going on . . . on about what girl had caught their eye, what was being served for dinner, about Quidditch and . . . and . . . well, often times about what a complete prat the man propped up on pillows across from her was.

All this silence was unnerving. Was she supposed to do something, say something? Really. They were stuck together for the foreseeable future, was a little polite conversation all that much to ask?

When the silence became the loudest sound Hermione thought she'd ever heard, she gave in. "How are you feeling today, sir?"

As that one damnable black brow rose, Hermione cursed a blue streak — if only in her head. She wasn't sure what she'd done, but she was positive that it was now S.N.O.R.T. 1, Snape 1.

Setting aside the empty tray, he said, "I am feeling rather rotten. As that situation is not likely to change anytime soon, I think we can dispense with any future repetitions of that question. Agreed?"

Again that brow rose, along with Hermione's ire. Repeating her resolve of maturity and self-possession, she gave him a tight smile. "Yes, sir."

That earned her what she considered Snape's smile-smirk. Which, if she was reading him correctly, meant that he was feeling pretty good, all things considered, even if he'd said he was feeling rotten. Because the smile-smirk was marginally more smile than true smirk and she viewed it as a Snape-pleased expression rather than a Snape-plotting-your-demise expression.

Which meant that she probably ought to use his good mood while she had it.

"Professor, it's time to reapply the burn salve."

His pleased look immediately dropped into a heavy scowl. "Of course it is."

"Healer Alverez-"

"Yes, yes," he waved her off. "I am well aware of Healer Alverez's various edicts concerning my recuperation and your place in it." He paused and Hermione got the distinct impression that he was steeling himself for something unpleasant. "You may begin with the burns along my legs."

That was a surprise and much easier than she'd ever expected. She studiously ignored the part of her that was feeling let down at missing what she'd imagined to be a right good, and winnable for her, argument.

Taking a seat at the foot of the narrow bed, Hermione pulled out the jar and set it beside her. Having been drilled by Alverez on how sensitive Snape's skin and nerves were from the various curses and hexes he'd been hit with, Hermione very carefully lifted the sheet from Snape's feet and lower legs and folded it back so it rested just above his knees.

Her professor gave no comment and Hermione risked a glance up at him. He was staring straight up at the ceiling and studiously avoiding looking at her.

She felt the prickle of nervous sweat between her shoulder blades. It wasn't that she hadn't done this before, but he'd never been awake before. She knew how much Snape disliked being touched. This had to be particularly trying for him.

"Just get on with it, Granger," he snapped, though gritted teeth.

"Right. Get on with it," she murmured, more to herself than him.

Loosening the cork stopper, she was hit with the soothing odor of the herbs used in the preparation. Dipping in two fingers, she scooped up an oily glob of the stuff. As she'd done in the past when he'd been unconscious, she talked her way through each step. She'd done it then so he'd know, even if unconscious, that he was being cared for and that the touch he was feeling wasn't meant to inflict more pain. She did it now to try and ease the painfully tight tension within him.

"Starting with your left foot."

Using just her fingertips and with the lightest of touches, she spread the salve over the angry looking hex burn that circled his foot a few inches above his ankle before flaring upward in jagged peaks to mid-calf. Focusing on the task at hand, Hermione tried to forget the fact she was touching her teacher — her very naked teacher. The naked teacher who had surprisingly muscled calves, and fine-boned, almost elegant-looking feet, even if the decidedly boney ankles showed evidence of his unhealthy weight loss. Fine black hair tickled her fingertips as Hermione smoothed the salve over his calves.

A drop of sweat rolled down along her spine and she frantically searched for anything to say to fill the silence of the room.

"This is a very odd burn pattern." Her voice sounded loud in the silence.

"Boots," Snape grunted out, while still focused on the ceiling.

Grasping onto anything that would fill the void, Hermione started to ask the follow-up question to the enigmatic answer of 'boots'.

"How-"

Snape cut her off with an exasperated sigh. "I teach Potions to idiots." As that was a standard complaint with him, she wasn't even offended. "Potions are inherently dangerous and volatile, especially when completed incorrectly. I wear dragon hide boots, Granger, that are resistant to various levels of both acid and fire."

With Snape being distracted into 'teacher mode,' Hermione felt some of the tension leave the tight muscles beneath her fingertips.

"In addition, since dragons are by nature magical creatures, the hide also provides limited protection against spells. My feet were protected while the skin above my boots was not."

Hermione swallowed hard. He spoke with such dispassion, as if the torture he was relating hadn't been inflicted upon his own flesh. But he was talking and since she figured they both needed some distraction she asked a question she'd always been curious about.

"The headmaster says that we shouldn't be afraid of a name. That we should call" — she started to say Voldemort and then thought better of it — "You Know Who by his name. Why don't you call him by his name?"

The muscles under her fingertips stiffened again and Hermione braced for the tirade. When he spoke his voice had gone cold. Eyes that had been staring upwards tracked down to pin her with a merciless stare. "I have already told you that I would tell you the truth of things. That I would not hold back the knowledge you needed in order to think about your circumstances. Think carefully on the questions you would ask me. Some doors once opened can never be closed again."

She had the distinct impression he was trying to scare her. "I want to understand." She bit her tongue before the word 'you' escaped.

Silence again.

When he didn't speak further, she tried to explain. "I've never understood how an entire society can be afraid of a name. No one's ever really explained."

"Muggle-born," he finally answered, as those eyes finally flickered away to resume their study of the ceiling and Hermione took in a deep, shaky breath. She wasn't sure if she should feel proud or terrified that the score was now S.N.O.R.T. 2, Snape 1.

Gathering every bit of her Gryffindor courage, she asked the next question. "How could being Muggle-born make any difference in this case? It's a name."

"No, Granger, it is not just a name. We are fools to teach you of Goblin Wars and not teach you of the time in which you live. When the Dark Lord rose to power the first time, he called himself by the name he took."

"Lord Vo-"

"Do not say it," he hissed. Pausing to take a deep breath he continued in a more normal tone. "But yes, he was called by that name. As he took more power and gathered his followers, he created his inner circle."

"The people who would become the Death Eaters."

"Eventually, yes. Many in those days that sought his favour, sought to be close to him. It was a feeling of basking in greatness, that you were at the center of something profound and earth-shattering that was going to change everything you thought you knew. Not all of those that sought the position got it. It was an earned place based on loyalty and how useful you were to him. In the end, those that proved their worth were given the Mark."

"I always thought that all of his followers carried the mark. Are you saying that we are trying to fight people who we can't even identify?"

"The world is never that simple. There are twenty-two of us, which I know about, that carry the Mark. There may be others that even I am not aware of. But there are hundreds of supporters who carry nothing but their ideology. Would you build an army and then mark every follower so that your opponents could easily identify them?"

She flushed. "No. I never thought about it. Everyone just talks about the Death Eaters. But why mark them?"

"Because they" — those eyes caught hers again — "because we were special. Our loyalty was tested and proven. We were the elite. It was a badge of honour as much as anything. It didn't become . . . more until later."

The detachment she'd heard in his voice when he'd described his torture had been replaced with a self-mocking derision that made Hermione almost wish for the indifference. Had he ever spoken of these things to anyone but Dumbledore? Even then, she had to wonder, how often would this man burden the headmaster with his thoughts? Listening to him, she resolved all over again to be the confidante — the friend — that Snape so obviously needed.

"What changed?" she asked.

"The plan in those days was different than the current course of action the Dark Lord has embarked upon. He was human the first time — charismatic, and a natural leader. There was much talk about him becoming the Minster of Magic. In such a position of authority, he would have irrevocably changed the face of the wizarding world in England. I do not doubt that had he succeeded in his plans, he would have expanded out to encompass all the wizarding enclaves around the world within a few short years."

"He was that close?" she asked in surprise. She never even considered that Voldemort could have been that near to the completion of his goals.

"Close?" He gave a soft chuff of amusement. "He was already there. He controlled many of the key members of the Ministry and the Wizengamot."

Completely caught up in Snape's story, Hermione forgot about the salve, her hand coming to rest lightly on Snape's calf. "But if he had such a powerbase, what happened?" she asked. "How did he fail? How did the Order get involved?"

"Dumbledore happened. He saw where the Dark Lord was going. The headmaster, while not always able to see that which is right in front of him," — Hermionedetected old bitterness in his words as he spoke — "nevertheless, has a unique gift in seeing the larger, long-range patterns forming around him. I suspect that Miranda Vector had much to do with Dumbledore recognising the threat the Dark Lord posed. To combat that threat, Dumbledore gathered together those he thought could aid him in stopping the war he saw coming and took a stand."

"So for the first time, he met opposition."

That got her a ghost of a smile. "Very good. When Dumbledore shone light on the behind-the-scenes machinations that had been going on in the Ministry, public opinion began to turn. Wizarding society began to pull back from an individual who was being exposed as a dangerous radical."

"Dumbledore forced his hand."

"Indeed. Unfortunately, Dumbledore also miscalculated."

"Miscal . . ." she began, but stopped as she started putting together the pieces of everything Snape had been saying with what she knew of Voldemort's behavior. "Dumbledore thought he'd do one thingand he did something completely different."

Snape's lips pursed. Hermione could see him debating on whether or not to say what was on his mind.

"Sir?"

"I have found over the years, Granger, that the headmaster is almost infallible. Yet when he does fail, the consequences of that failure are often unimaginable."

Scooting to the edge of her seat, Hermione leaned forward. "What happened?"

"Since the more Slytherin tactics had failed, the Dark Lord turned to more obvious methods — the raids were born and the terror killings began."

"But how does that related to your-" she gestured towards his arm. "And why no one says the Dark Lord's name."

"The Mark isn't simply a tattoo. It is a magical link between the one who created it and the ones who wears it. It links all those who wear to each other and ultimately to him. Because of that link, the Dark Lord is gifted with several abilities. It allows him to call the wearers to him as a sort of Apparation guide. The wearer of the Mark need not have any destination in mind — they have only to follow the pull of the Mark. It also allows the Dark Lord limited access to the wearer's magic."

"Sort of like the Affinity we share."

"Yes and no. It forces a type of Affinity where he can use our magic as almost a pool of power that he can tap into. However, to do so, those wearing the Mark must be in close proximity to him."

"Which explains why he would want to call you to his side at a moment's notice."

Precisely. And lastly, the Mark provides the most effective tool in the Dark Lord's quest to instill fear in the wizarding population. It allows him to 'hear' when his name is spoken."

"What does that mean exactly?"

"It is not a listening device per se, but if you were to speak his name, the Mark on my arm would recognise it, for lack of a better word. And in turn, the Dark Lord becomes aware of being spoken about."

"So everyone became afraid of saying his name. They didn't want to draw his attention because no one knew who might be carrying the Mark. If the wrong person overheard them, it could be a death sentence. That makes so much sense now."

And then a thought occurred to her. "But . . . but . . . that means that every time Dumbledore says his name while you're around . . . he's . . . ."

"He's taunting him, yes."

Hermione's eyes grew round with the implications as her thoughts raced with that last bit of news.

"That's completely irresponsible," she finally got out, outraged all over again. "Dumbledore's not the one that has to face him. The Dark Lord could take out his anger on you."

"It is a calculated risk."

"It's cra-"

"Calculated, Granger. As so many things are," he said dryly. "Now, I do believe we are done with your history lesson. If you finished feeling me up?" he asked, pointedly looking to where her hand still rested again his leg.

Hastily snatching it back, she fought the blush she could feel rising in her cheeks. "Fine," she said, giving in somewhat less than gracefully. "But I'm not finished. I need to turn you so I can get the burns across your back."

"Have your skills at Moblicorpus improved since I last saw you dragging poor Miss Stuart through the halls of the Hogwarts?"

"I was not dragging . . . oh, you are doing it again. I will not be baited."

"As you say, Granger."

"Yes, I do say," she snapped back at him with more cheek than was probably prudent. But he did no more than raise a mocking brow at her which set her to fuming. She wanted to level a Moblicorpus at him that second but he'd raised her doubts now. If she dropped him or even set him down too hard, she could cause him a lot of pain. Damn the man.

"Rink!" she called.

Rink appeared almost immediately at her side. Flashing Snape a pleased smirk, she said, "I need to attend to Professor Snape's injuries on his back. Can you please turn him over to his stomach without jarring him?"

Snape's eyes widened and then narrowed down into slits. "Now see here, Granger. I will not be man-handled, or elf-handled, for that matter."

"Moving the Master is no problem for Rink, Miss."

He'd then turned a widen-eyed glare on Snape with the admonishment of "Miss must be taking care of Master," although Rink made that pronouncement from the rather dubious safety of her legs.

Before Snape could even begin to further his protest, he was raised, flipped, and gently set back down. Rink had vanished post-haste; probably for the safety of the kitchen if Hermione was to guess.

"Since when does my house-elf take orders from you?" Snape ground out, his tone irritated, and slightly muffled, by the pillow Snape was now speaking against. "You did not exactly mention that yesterday."

Hermione set about folding back the sheet from her shoulders and back. "It's a new development, she answered, making sure to keep any amusement out of her voice. "I asked Dumbledore and he says it's because the elves in the house see me as the head of the Granger house line."

She scowled in aggravation. "Technically, that's my mother, but since she's Muggle, it's also me in some weird sort of way. And since none of the other residents of Grimmauld Place, including Professor Dumbledore since he's only the steward for the Hogwarts line, are house-elf owners, the elves all look to me for instructions."

Snape chuckled darkly. "A fact, no doubt, that is driving Molly Weasley around the twist."

Hermione sighed in agreement. "They took over the kitchen and won't let her back in. She glares at me a lot whenever the subject comes up."

Leaning over to get a better look, Hermione traced a fingertip around the edge of one of the burns. "These are healing well, sir," Hermione told him, smoothing on a layer of the salve.

A number of older hex scars were concentrated under his right shoulder blade. She wanted to ask him about them but figured that she had used up her allotment of personal questions for the day. He'd been remarkably accommodating of her, and she didn't want to push the delicate relationship they were building.

Snape shifted, raising himself up on forearms so he could look over his shoulder at her.

"Tell me about Potter."

Hermione blinked in surprise, before grinning at her professor in excitement. He hadn't forgotten.

"You're really going to help me?"

He lowered himself back down to the pillow. "It would seem that I have nothing better to do than lie here. However, amendable as I am to fixing Mr. Potter, you and I both know that he will not listen to anything I have to say to him. This will require your intervention, and as loath as I am to suggest it, Mr. Weasley's as well."

Snape shifted again as Hermione smeared some of the salve across his ribs. Ticklish a part of noted with a grin. She was wise enough to withhold any comment on the fact though. She did say, "Ron is better with Harry than you'd imagine."

"Is he?"

"Actually, I think Ron is better with Harry than I am. Harry still listens to Ron, but I just seem to make him angrier."

"I would hazard that your involvement with me has not helped your relationship."

"I think Harry was glad in the beginning that I was being punished. But it's odd, in a way. He knows that I've been tasked with taking care of you, but he gets angry when I do things that involve taking care of you."

"And what of Mr. Weasley?"

She gave a short laugh. "Ron's been a rock. I mean, Harry seems to get mad at Ron too, but it doesn't usually last long and even then, Ron seems to be able to get Harry to snap out of it."

That seemed to catch Snape's attention. "How?" he asked.

"I'm not sure really. It's not that he really does or says anything. Mostly, I've just seen him touch him. Ron will put his hand on Harry's back or take hold of his arm. That seems to work most times. Is that significant?"

"Everything is significant and connected. Part of getting you to think is also seeing the connections between things. What did I tell you about dark magic?"

Hmm . . ." she paused, thinking back. "You said magic like the Unforgivables was hard to do and that it took great conviction of purpose and used up a lot of magical energy. You also said that dark magic was taking the easy way out. That's a bit of a contradiction, isn't it?"

"Magic is at its essence about contradiction. The strongest healing potions use the most poisonous ingredients. Charms create something out of nothing. Transfiguration modifies the very essence of one object into another."

Snape shifted again and grunted in annoyance as he tried to move. "Call back Rink and turn me to rights. I refuse to have this conversation while talking into a pillow."

It took only a few moments for Rink to get Snape properly situated again while Hermione put away the burn salve and prepared the rest of his potions. Snape eyed them with distaste when she brought two vials over to him.

Uncorking one, he tossed it back in one smooth swallow. "As I was saying, magic is about contradictions but what I meant about taking the easy way out is that certain emotions can be used to fuel the darker spells — hate, anger, revenge — these are typically more easily accessed within the human psyche. The slippery slope of dark magic is that the very part of you that generates magic is more often than not linked with your emotions. The use of Unforgivables irrevocably scars those emotions. If you are a believer, you might say that it mars your very soul. The damage done inevitably leaves traces behind."

"What kind of traces?"

He shrugged and then drank the second vial before he answered. "Emotional instability is one of the surest indicators. Megalomania, paranoia, and madness are others."

Feeling the need to defend her friend, she said, "Harry's irritable, he's not mad."

"Your body and your magic falls into the patterns you teach it. You can't Imperio without intent to control another. It's a tremendous drain on your magic. So you turn to powerful emotions in order to get that power. You pick hate because hate is easy and you hate the individual you want to control. You find it easy now. Next time around, you have another person that needs to be controlled. You don't particularly hate this person but you remember how it felt the last time. So you imagine the previous person and the hate comes boiling back up again. Soon, hate is linked with the spell. Soon, you find that even the smallest of things brings the hate back to you. Soon, it is controlling you, rather than you controlling it."

There is was again — that cold indifference. She knew that he was describing himself as much as Harry now and she shivered. "Where does Ron fit?"

"Mr. Weasley breaks the pattern. Every time he touches Potter, he is an instant reminder of positive feelings — of trust and companionship."

"And love," she added.

Snape grimaced but agreed. "And love."

"You don't believe in the power of love?"

"The headmaster will tell you that it is the greatest power."

"Don't you don't believe him?"

"While love may be a powerful, it is not necessarily kind. It also, more often than not, requires sacrifices in exchange."

"Most people would argue that the sacrifices are worth it."

"Most people are idiots and have never had to pay those consequences."

Snape leaned back into his pillows and closed his eyes. "I'm tired now, Granger. Come back after lunch and we will continue."

He was dismissing her. Something about their conversation was really disturbing him, even more than the talk of Voldemort and the Dark Mark had earlier. Hermione wanted to protest and push. Six months previously, she would have. Now, she just gathered up the empty tray and promised to return at lunch.

She had a lot to think about — about Ron and Harry and herself. She had a lot to think about regarding Snape and everything she'd learned. Looking back at the man, she had to wonder, Who was your pattern breaker and what happened to them?

Well, I thought that all the talking was over and done with but it turns out that once Hermione was finally able to talk, she wouldn't stop. The whole chapter came across as one big lecture to me, but there are some lovely clues tossed in there about future chapters if you can find them.


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