Chapter 5

Perhaps it was because she was now so busy, what with her private lessons in Potions and struggling to staying on top of the rest of her coursework – not to mention the effort it took to keep both Harry and Draco away from one another, but Hermione could hardly believe it when she realized she had been at Hogwarts nearly two months.

Her birthday had come and gone quickly; Millie had given her a helpful organizing calendar and her parents had sent more muggle clothes than she knew what to do with. She had taken a genuine liking to most all her classes, though she undoubtedly favored Potions, Charms, and Transfiguration. Surprisingly, though, her private lessons with Professor Snape had quickly become the brightest spot of each week.

How to explain it, to pinpoint it, she wasn't sure.

Oh, he was stern and short with her, certainly. He would watch her little hands work as they pounded the mortar and pestle, cut ingredients, and leaned over her cauldron, grave and silent as ever. It unnerved her when he hovered so, his mass and height filling up the space around her as she worked, his jet-black hair and dark eyes in shadow beneath it.

"No," he would correct her harshly, leaning over her work. "You have cut your flobberworm too thick, Miss Granger. Did you not read chapter five of Magical Drafts and Potions?"

She would sigh heavily. "I know it's supposed to be as thin as possible, but it keeps slipping in my hands. I can't grasp it properly to make an even cut unless I make it thicker."

And he would take her knife and a worm from an old, cracked dish. "Watch carefully. I will show you."

His hands were fascinating. They worked and moved like an artist with a paintbrush, a sculptor with a chisel. His work was flawless, effortless. And Hermione would nod when he handed the knife back to her, feeling vaguely embarrassed her own work was so sloppy in comparison.

She cut flobberworms until her hands ached from gripping the knife handle, though the results seemed to improve – albeit slowly. She doubted she would ever obtain the mastery Professor Snape possessed, but he had nodded at her finished product with a dry gleam in his dark eyes, likely the equivalent of approval from any other man.

On Halloween morning, Hermione woke to the delicious smell of baking pumpkin wafting into the dungeons. Even better, Professor Flitwick announced in Charms that he thought they were ready to start making objects fly, something they'd all been dying to try since they'd seen him make Neville's toad zoom around the classroom.*

Hermione's sudden excitement was short lived, however, when she saw she was to be partnered with Weasley. He, too, didn't appear thrilled by the prospect.

"Now, don't forget that nice wrist movement we've been practicing!" squeaked Professor Flitwick, perched on top of his pile of books as usual. "Swish and flick, remember, swish and flick. And saying the magic words properly is very important, too – never forget Wizard Baruffio, who said 's' instead of 'f' and found himself on the floor with a buffalo on his chest."*

Weasley drew his chestnut wand and cleared his throat. "Well, I'll go first, then. Can't be that hard."

And then he proceeded to wave his arms around like a windmill. "Wingardium Leviosa!"

"Watch it!" Hermione snapped, ducking to avoid a blow to the face. "You'll take someone's eye out!"

"Wingardium Leviosa!"

"You're saying it wrong. It's Wing-gar-dium Levi-o-sa, make the 'gar' nice and long."*

"You do it, then, if you're so clever," Ron snarled.*

Hermione rolled up the sleeves of her gown, flicked her wand, and said, "Wingardium Leviosa!"*

Their feather rose off the desk and hovered about four feet above their heads.*

"Oh, well done!" cried Professor Flitwick, clapping. "Everyone see here, Miss Granger's done it!"*

"Ugh," Weasley muttered under his breath, as he watched the feather. "Typical."

Hermione managed to make the feather levitate each time she cast the charm, pushing it higher and higher – trying to get it to navigate around the room with slight movements of her wrist.

"Show off," Weasley grumbled as he watched her, sulking back in his chair.

"If you just pronounced it correctly," Hermione huffed, lowering the feather to their table, "you'd be able to do it. Your wrist movements are fine; you're saying it wrong."

"Yeah, well, sorry we don't all speak perfect Latin."

If you'd just read the pronunciation guide in the text, Hermione thought privately, you wouldn't look like a daft oaf.

Once class had finished, Hermione cleared her things up quickly, stowing her wand away in her robes and heaving her heavy satchel over her shoulder. She was just pushing through the crowded corridor to hurry off to her next class when she heard Weasley complaining to Harry.

"It's no wonder no one can stand her. She's a nightmare, honestly."*

Hermione started.

She was definitely not going to cry. She kept her eyes on the ground.

And Harry didn't contradict him.

She concentrated hard on keeping her lip stiff, but she felt one hot tear gather at the corner of her eye, and pushed hurriedly through the crowd so no one would see her.

She didn't hear the boys behind her as she made for the bathroom.

"I think she heard you."*

"So? She must've noticed she's got no friends."*

The weight of the world was falling away like water.

Hermione's cheeks burned. She was breathing a little raggedly, too embarrassed to look at her face in the bathroom mirror again, too ashamed to take in her tear-stained, pathetic appearance. With a great heave, she tossed her satchel against the far wall of the bathroom and sat down on it, ignoring the tight, devastating ache she felt in her chest.

Why are you letting it bother you so much? Weasley's always been a git.

But it was more than that, really.

Weasley's accusation had cut her deeply, in the most tender area of her little soul. She had always known she would never be the pretty, popular girl – the girl others looked to for friendship, for an example. No, she had come to terms with that long ago. But despite the boy's rudeness, he had been right. And that's what hurt the most.

No one could stand her.

Muggles, magical kids her age – it didn't matter. She didn't have any friends.

Millie likes you, a voice in her head reminded her. She's your friend.

Hermione sighed deeply, rubbing her eyes. Yeah, she's the only one. And she'll probably get sick of me after awhile, just like the rest.

Several long moments passed as she sat miserably on her satchel – the corner of one of her texts digging painfully into her hip – when she thought she had finally managed to compose herself enough to go to her next class. And then she realized, with some trepidation, she was sobbing aloud. Tucking her legs in on herself, she cried, sucking in deep gasps until she didn't think she could cry anymore.

The Dark Mark itched.

Severus ignored it, refused to touch it. The Dark Lord was vanquished – though it scarcely mattered. He didn't dare give in, didn't dare do anything that might trigger – something.

He sighed, ensconced in his private quarters, running a hand through his long hair. The day had begun grey, still, and silent – though it could have been a howling blizzard and he wouldn't have known or cared.

Halloween.

Oh ... Lily.

Feeling as though he had just received a punch in the stomach, afraid he might literally vomit, Severus wished he were dead in that moment. A decade ago she had been killed. And he may as well have been the one that cast the Unforgivable at her.

Involuntarily, as he had so many times, he imagined her on that night, frightened and afraid – alone.

Severus closed his eyes. He felt weak.

Potter had been killed first – or so he had been told. What had gone through Lily's mind as she ran to save her son? Did she wonder, did she hope that he could come and save her? Save the child? Did she curse him in her final moments or did she know that he loved her still, that he knew he had done wrong all those years before when he called her the unthinkable?

Severus' heart pounded with the terror of things named and nameless the Dark Lord could have done to her that night. Her precious, fragile body hadn't shown any signs of physical trauma, though there were worse things, Severus knew, than barbaric slicing hexes.

His vision swam with bitter fury. His knuckles clenched.

No telling in the afterlife if Lily was aware of him. No telling if she knew he still loved her, that he had vowed to protect her son with his very life. There was no telling if she had ever thought of him, of what might have been, if he hadn't gone and destroyed everything.

He gave himself thirty seconds to ponder it, and nothing more.

He sat back, alone and miserable, resting his head on one hand, when the Floo in his mantle flared to life.

"Severus."

Severus did not look up.

"What is it, Albus?" he sighed, inexplicably annoyed. "Has Potter done something remarkable I'm to be aware of?" Oddly, his fingers itched for a brandy.

He heard the old man brush the soot and residue of the Floo powder off his robes, and then his light steps crossing the flagstone.

"What, exactly, are you doing, Severus?" Albus asked, picking out a sofa's armrest and leaning against it.

"What does it look like?" Severus spat, his dark eyes flashing up to meet his mentor's soft gaze.

"Sulking," Albus said simply. "Though it will do you little good, my boy."

"I am not your boy," Severus ground out, ignoring the twinge on his left forearm.

"Yes, of course," said Albus, looking thoughtful. "Though I wish you'd stop being so hard on yourself, Severus."

Severus ignored him, instead, choosing to count the knots of the oak wood of his desk. You know nothing, Albus. Nothing.

The Headmaster moved from his post at the armrest and paced quietly in front of the fireplace. "Severus," he said finally, softly, "I must ask you not to go to Godric's Hollow this year."

Severus' head snapped up like a whip. "What?" he bit out.

Albus sighed sadly, turning to face the Potion's master. "This dwelling, this guilt, Severus," he spread his hands out helplessly, "it's destroying you. And I care far too much for you to allow that to happen."

"You go too far, old man," Severus growled, focusing on keeping his voice steady. "You know nothing of which you speak. Now, get out."

"Calm yourself, Severus."

"You cannot, you will not use Lily to manipulate me, Albus!" He rose to his feet.

The Headmaster, however, held his ground.

Severus' chest heaved in rage. How dare he bring up Lily in his presence! How dare he! Albus, alone, knew the anguish, the guilt that pained him – that nearly crippled him with every thought and action.

"Have you come here to gloat, Albus? Is that it? To rub the very thing in my face which pains me most?" His voice was harsh, tormented. "You would deny me to go to her grave on the anniversary of her death?" He twisted his fingers into his hair, digging into his scalp. "You, who knows all, would deny me this?"

After a long moment, the torch wall flames crackling and licking at the sides of the stone, Severus whispered, "I – I wish I were dead."

"No, Severus," the Headmaster shook his head. "You still have a promise to fulfill."

"And how could I forget it?" he snapped angrily. "You remind me in your every glance!"

Albus sighed softly. "Harry is a good boy. I trust you to protect him."

"Albus, I – I am not fit for life. Please." He was mildly startled by the plea in his voice. "Relinquish me from my vow so that I may end this."

"Cease this foolishness," the Headmaster said sternly. "You know of your vow and I will hold you to it. If you ever truly loved Lily, you will help me protect Harry." His blue eyes were piercing. "You gave me your word."

Severus was silent. He closed his eyes for a moment.

"Severus," said Albus. "It may seem insensitive, but I forbid it." His face was infinitely sorrowful. "You must trust me on this."

"Trust you?" Severus roared, his face twisted up in agony. "I have done everything you have asked of me without question!"

"And you will do this," Albus said softly. "I am sorry, Severus."

He wanted to shout, to yell, to curse anything and everything in sight. Instead, after a long moment, after his breathing had calmed some, he said very quietly, hating himself more than ever, "I bow to your authority, Headmaster."

Albus frowned deeply. He walked over to the younger man and rested a withered, veined hand on Severus' shoulder, patting it gently. Severus twitched slightly, but was otherwise still.

With a handful of Floo powder, Albus said softly, sadly, "I hope you understand how much I love you, my boy." And he threw the powder at his feet and disappeared into a glory of green flames.

It was a long time before she heard it – a low grunting, and the shuffling footfalls of gigantic feet.

Hermione lifted her chin from her knees, looking around the bathroom with forced curiously. What in the world?

There was a chilling silence and then, like an explosion, the door to the bathroom doubled over and shrieked out of its floor tracks. Hermione instantly leapt to her feet. The door twisted horribly around its last upper corner still lodged in place, hit the ceiling with another clang, and dropped to the floor.

Hermione screamed.

What in the –

It was a horrible sight. Twelve feet tall, its skin was a dull, granite gray, its great lumpy body like a boulder with its small bald head perched on top like a coconut. It had short legs thick as tree trunks with flat, horny feet. The smell coming from it was incredible. It was holding a huge wooden club, which dragged along the floor because its arms were so long.*

A ... a mountain troll?

She screamed again, staring at the creature in a moment of utter, dawning horror.

The scream was an obvious mistake; the troll turned and took notice of her, lumbering forward slowly with a low growl.

My wand! Where's my wand!

She fumbled in her robes, her sweaty fingers not able to grip much of anything, though she wondered, vaguely, what spell she could perform on the monster, as Quirrell had only taught them to shoot sparks from their wands.

The troll advanced, knocking sinks off the wall with swipes of its club as though they were nothing more than obnoxious flies. Rubble from the wall tumbled to the floor. The troll swung again and cut out a huge hole in the wall just above her. And as the dust clouds cleared, coughing into the stone and rubble, Hermione saw, weirdly, both Harry and Weasley bolt into the bathroom from behind the troll.

"Harry!" she screamed frantically. "Help!"

But the troll swung again. Hermione stumbled to her right to avoid the blow, but the wooden club smashed into the wall and came about again, knocking her off her feet. She staggered to the side, crashing into the ground. Pieces of the wall rained down on top of her.

"Confuse it!"* Harry – or Weasley said – Hermione wasn't certain, she had hit the ground at an unexpected angle and was unsure which way was up.

"Oy, pea-brain!"* – that would be Weasley, "over here, you big lump!"

She tried to get to her hands and knees, but gravity pulled her the wrong way and she slumped to the ground again. There was blood on her arm.

"Come on, run, run!"* Harry was yelling at her. "Please, Hermione!"

I'm trying! she wanted to yell, but the dust cloud hadn't cleared, and she coughed roughly into her sleeve. She heard Harry and Weasley shouting at one another and at the troll, heard the pounding of the troll's heavy footsteps as he turned from her to where the boys stood. But it wasn't until she heard Weasley shout the spell that she became instantly coherent.

"Wingardium Leviosa!"*

Her heart leapt. He said it right! He said it right!

And she peered up from her sleeve in time to see the troll's wooden club fly from its hand, rise high into the air, and drop – with a sickening crack – onto its owner's head. Harry, she realized with a start, was hanging off the troll's back. The creature swayed on the spot and then fell flat on its face, with a thud that made the whole room tremble.*

"Hermione," said Harry shakily after a long moment. "Are you all right?"

Hermione sincerely tried to focus, to ignore the pounding of her blood in her ears, and sluggishly – it happened. The images of two boys swam around in front of her and then grew clear. She wanted to skip across the room and throw her arms around both their necks, such was her gratitude. Her wobbly legs, however, protested as she took a tentative step forward.

"Is it – dead?"*

"I don't think so," said Harry. "I think it's just been knocked out."*

A sudden slamming and loud footsteps made the three of them look up. They hadn't realized what a racket they had been making, but of course, someone downstairs must have heard the crashes and the troll's roars. A moment later, Professor McGonagall had come bursting into the room, closely followed by Snape, with Quirrell bringing up the rear. Quirrell took one look at the troll, let out a faint whimper, and sat quickly down on a toilet, clutching his heart.*

Professor Snape gave Hermione a swift, piercing looking. Anger or concern? Or – both? He bent over the troll.

"What on earth were you thinking of?" said Professor McGonagall, with a cold fury in her voice. "You're lucky you weren't killed. Why aren't you in your dormitory?"*

Inwardly, Hermione cringed. Of course she hadn't known to go to the Slytherin common room – she had been in the bathroom all afternoon. But she couldn't let Harry and Weasley take the blame, either. They had, after all, just saved her life. Professor Snape's face kept changing from angry to murderous and back again, and she wondered if he'd cancel her private lessons immediately – or at the very least, let her see the week through before he kicked her out.

"Please, Professor McGonagall – they were looking for me."*

Professor Snape's dark eyes hadn't moved from her – it felt as though they were peeling through her skin and flesh, tracing her bones and muscles, looking for harm.

"I went looking for the troll because I – I thought I could deal with it on my own – you know, because I've read all about them. If they hadn't found me, I'd be dead now. Harry stuck his wand up its nose and Weas – er, Ron knocked it out with its own club. They didn't have time to come and fetch anyone. It was about to finish me off when they arrived."*

"Well – in that case ... " said Professor McGonagall. "Miss Granger, you foolish girl, how could you think of tackling a mountain troll on your own?"*

Professor Snape was still glaring at her.

"Five points will be taken from Slytherin for this," said Professor McGonagall. "I'm very disappointed in you. If you're not hurt at all, you'd better head to the Slytherin common room. Students are finishing the feast with their Houses."*

Hermione hung her head and limped forward. Professor Snape's eyes traced her every movement.

"Follow me, Miss Granger," he said evenly, darkly.

She hobbled after him, ignoring the twinge in her left leg as she navigated around the huge pieces of rubble and stone that littered the entrance of the bathroom. The moment they were alone in the corridor, however, he whirled around and pulled her to him.

"You are injured," he said gruffly, his eyes following the little blood trail down her forearm.

Hermione winced as she looked at it. "It's not ... too bad, I don't think. I'm sure that – "

" – Do not be foolish!" he snapped. "You think me to be blind?" he almost snorted. "I can most readily assure you, Miss Granger, I am not. To pretend you are not injured when you so obviously are, like some dunderheaded Gryffindor, is beneath you."

"But, sir – "

"Madam Pomfrey is currently elsewhere at present," Professor Snape cut in sharply, straightening to his full height. "No doubt she assumed this school's students were less idiotic than you just proved." He looked down at her without blinking. "Come, Miss Granger. I will tend to your injuries myself, after which, you have some explaining to do."

They stopped halfway down a cold corridor Hermione had never been down before.

"Sir?" she looked around curiously. "Where are we?"

Professor Snape smirked unpleasantly. "My private quarters, Miss Granger."

He watched the uncomfortable comprehension of it seep into her face. He sneered derisively. "Perhaps you will think twice before attempting something so utterly foolish as fighting a mountain troll when you can hardly wield a wand." He drew his own wand and turned toward an elaborate tapestry that depicted the Forbidden Forest and Black Lake; he pressed the tip of his wand to the heart of the lake, murmuring softly. "As it is," he said flatly, "you have left me little choice; I keep medicinal potions and a first aid kit in my private laboratory."

He stood back as the tapestry split down the center with a horrible rip and the wall behind folded in on itself. He gestured her forward. "After you, Miss Granger."

She limped blindly into the darkness, groping at the walls so she wouldn't trip. She heard him follow behind her and a moment later the torches on the walls flared to life, revealing a large low-ceiling room, an elaborate mantle, and several pieces of dark, leathered furniture that rested atop finely woven emerald floor rugs. On one side wall there were floor-to-ceiling windows that, during daylight, would have a spectacular view of the grounds and lake.

"Oh, wow," said Hermione, hobbling over to the windows.

"Indeed," Professor Snape said, watching her. He might have told her to sit down, but he waited, observing the intrigued expression on her face.

"How far does the view go?"

"To the mountains."

"Wow," Hermione reiterated.

Professor Snape cleared his throat. "You will wait here and touch nothing, Miss Granger. I will fetch the first aid kit in my laboratory."

She turned from the windows. "Yes, sir – "

But he was already gone.

Carefully, Hermione made her way back to the center of the room, easing herself onto the nearest sofa. There in the sudden silence she looked around, curiously, at the doorways she assumed led off to a bedroom, bathroom, or the private laboratory of which Professor Snape had spoken. Opposite the hearth was an overflowing bookshelf covering the entire wall surface with books stacked two deep – though not at all haphazardly. There were books of every size and color – some had thick spines, while others had thin – and a few of the texts appeared to have teeth.

She heard him come back into the main chamber through one of the dark oak doors – though it was hardly difficult to do so, the room was completely silent.

"Are those all magical books?" Hermione asked as Professor Snape crossed the room stealthily, carrying a little box. She pointed to the bookshelf.

"Most," Professor Snape answered shortly. He pulled up a wooden chair and sat down directly in front of her.

Hermione's gaze traced the shelves longingly. "I bet it would take a lifetime to collect so many."

Professor Snape proceeded to open the box. "As you say."

She continued to stare at the books until Professor Snape cleared his throat.

"I suggest," he ground out, regarding her with a piercing gaze, "you tell me where besides your arm you are injured, Miss Granger. If you assume I wish to sit here idly all night waiting for you to speak, you are gravely mistaken."

"Oh," she blushed, chagrined. "Sorry, sir. Um, my leg, I suppose – "

" – Which leg?"

"The left one?"

"Are you guessing, Miss Granger, or are you providing me with an answer?" he asked mockingly.

"Er, no." She ducked her head, shaking it. "It's the left one – just below the knee."

He scooted his chair closer and, to Hermione's surprise, lifted her left leg – resting the heel of her foot atop his knee. It occurred to Hermione in that moment that she should be eternally grateful she chose not to wear stockings that day, and that her legs were bare. She didn't much fancy the thought of having to change in one of Professor Snape's rooms so he could view her leg properly.

"Professor," she asked tentatively, watching his black hair fall forward while he examined the cut on her leg, "why – why did you have to get a first aid kit? Can't wizards," she waved her little hands around, "... just heal things with magic?"

"An apt assessment, Miss Granger." He sounded almost bored. He reached into the little first aid kit and pulled out a jar of white salve. "Many injuries can be healed with the use of magic, though it is not always the case." He twisted the lid off and dipped his thumb and forefinger into the jar. "Those spells require a Healer's art, and as I am not a Healer – and as I assumed you wished to keep all your appendages – " he looked up at her with a significant glance, "I elected to fetch the first aid kit."

He rubbed the salve carefully over the gash on her leg.

"Do you object to my decision, Miss Granger?"

She shook her head, watching his hands. "No, sir."

"Good. Now, be still."

Hermione was mostly silent as Professor Snape cleaned and bandaged her wounds, answering only when he questioned whether it hurt if he pressed here, if she were uncomfortable if he pushed there. Once finished, his things stored safely back in the first aid kit, Professor Snape rose to his feet, looking down at her darkly.

His jaw was tightly set, his fists clenched; he appeared as formidable and as intimidating as he ever had.

Hermione swallowed thickly.

"Tell me, Miss Granger," Professor Snape said softly, dangerously. "Were you or were you not sorted into Slytherin House?"

She frowned, confused. "I ... I was sorted into Slytherin, professor."

"Ah," said Professor Snape. He had begun to pace slowly in front of the mantle. "I see. Would you care to explain to me, then, why you insist on conducting yourself outside the classroom in what I can only describe as typical, Gryffindor stupidity?" He voice had risen steadily, in a frightening, foreboding crescendo.

Hermione had opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off, leaning over her menacingly. She shrank back in her chair; the cold of his anger chilled her.

"You will explain, Miss Granger, in exacting detail precisely why you were involved in such an asinine scheme."

She recoiled slightly. "But, sir – "

"And do not dare think to lie to me, girl," he snapped and leaned closer, practically hovering over her. "While your little story might have quieted the other professors – the compunction to take on a fully grown mountain troll simply because you read about them is pathetically laughable," he snorted derisively, "you should feel fortunate your ability to think on your feet saved you from further questioning on Professor McGonagall's part."

He smiled cruelly, straightening to his full height. "I can most readily assure you, Miss Granger, I have the means to extract the truth if you chose to withhold it from me; I will forewarn you, however, it promises to be an uncomfortable experience on both our parts."

She blanched.

"P-professor," said Hermione timidly, finally, summoning all of her courage, "Harry and Weasley ... they, er, they didn't do anything wrong. Really. It was just as I said – they did save me. Only ..."

"Only what?"

Watching him, backlit by the fireplace, Hermione was quite certain she could feel his contempt.

She hesitated, looking to her hands. "Only ... the reason I was in the bathroom wasn't because I was looking for the troll – I didn't even know there was one in the school." She paused for a long moment.

"Miss Granger," said Professor Snape irritably, "this guessing game of yours is doing nothing to lessen your already severe punishment. If your desire is for me to deduct points from Slytherin, then by all means," he gestured toward her roughly, "... continue in your silence."

"I – I'm sorry, professor," she murmured. "But ... I really don't want – that is, please don't make me talk about it, sir."

"I-do-not-care," Professor Snape roared, gripping the armrest on her sofa. "You forfeited the right of your privacy the very moment you chose to disobey school rules." His dark eyes flashed dangerously. "You will tell me the truth, Miss Granger, or I will force it from you."

"I was crying!" she finally blurted out, burying her face in her hands.

He stared at her blankly. "You – what?"

Her little shoulders shook as she sobbed. "I – I was crying," she gasped into her hands. "Weasley said something awful about me, and I ... I ran to the bathroom and stayed there all afternoon. I missed class, the Halloween Feast – everything." She whimpered pathetically. "I didn't mean to ... I would never miss class, but ... "

She continued to babble incomprehensibly.

"Miss Granger, you will desist with these hysterics this very instant," he said sternly. "I demand it."

It took her a moment, but eventually she stopped crying and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Her eyes, she was certain, were puffy and red, but she met his own dark gaze almost levelly, and tried to hold it.

"What," he asked more softly, when she had finally quieted, "transpired between you and Mr Weasley?"

She shrugged, vaguely embarrassed she had been reduced to tears in front of her professor. "He – he said that no one could stand me. That I was a nightmare." She sniffed loudly, quelling another outburst of tears. "It sounds silly now, I know, but it ... hurt my feelings." Her eyes dropped to the floor. "That's what the kids at home would say, too. I – I had hoped it might be different here. That I might fit in."

Professor Snape was silent a long moment.

His voice became soft in a way she had never heard before. "Miss Granger, it ... does not do to dwell on others' opinions."

She nodded, looking away from him. "I know."

He looked down at her. "Then let it go."

"I – I am trying."

Professor Snape adjusted the chair and then lowered himself into it once more. "Miss Granger, look at me."

She blinked slowly, meeting his gaze.

"I will not lie to you, nor will I flatter you," he straightened in the chair. "No doubt you are aware that I do not mollycoddle my students."

She opened her mouth to say that she knew, that she couldn't imagine him ever handing out sweets the way Professor Dumbledore did. But looking into his weary, dark eyes, she hesitated just a moment. What sort of struggle left Professor Snape so tired?

She held her tongue.

He cleared his throat and his Adam's apple bobbed. "Miss Granger, I trust you remember your first night in this castle and that which I requested of you."

Hermione gave him a brief, grateful smile. "Yes, sir. You told me to come to you if someone threatened me. I hadn't forgotten."

He regarded her gravely. "Then know this, Miss Granger – that request goes beyond the walls of Slytherin. Gryffindors, as well as any other House, have a tradition of be unforgivably harsh toward Slytherins."

Irrelevantly she thought of Weasely, of his utter disdain of her for no apparent reason whatsoever.

But her thoughts lashed out at her. He helped save your life tonight.

"I have made a promise to the Headmaster," Professor Snape continued quietly, looking through the windows and out at the blackness beyond, "that I would do all in my power to protect you in light of your ... special circumstance – of the added danger you have been inadvertently placed in without any fault on your own part. This promise," he said, picking at the imaginary lint on the cuffs of his sleeves, "is an extension of one he, himself, made to your parents."

He then leaned forward and steepled his fingers, his eyes on her face. "And so, Miss Granger, I wonder what you'd have me report to Professor Dumbledore after an evening such as this?"

His black stare focused on her, and Hermione immediately shied away. "Do you understand, now, how foolish – how utterly reckless your recent actions have been? Nearly catching your death in the rain those few months ago – bodily throwing yourself in front of a mountain troll? What," he demanded, in tones of incredulous rage, "would you have me explain to your parents in the event of your untimely death?"

She was absolutely still, as it started to half-dawn on her.

"Professor Snape," Hermione said abruptly, looking up at him, "I'm sorry, I – I didn't realize ... " She blinked helplessly. "I don't mean to be a burden to you, sir."

"Then why," he demanded, "do you insist on aligning yourself with Potter and his moronic cabal? Merlin, you invite it! Surely you realize by now their philosophy of 'act first, think later'?" He gave her a significant look. "You, Miss Granger, are above that."

The image of running after Harry and Weasley that night with the three-headed dog ambushed her, and she flushed, chastened. Though, she reminded herself, Draco and Crabbe were just as involved as anyone.

Not knowing what more to say, she said simply, quietly, "I am sorry, sir."

He regarded her for a very long time, his eyes completely black in the dimly lighted room. It appeared for a moment that he was about to lay into her again, to tell her exactly how foolish she had been, but then, against every expectation she had yet formed of her Head of House, he said almost kindly, "Do not dwell on Mr Weasley's words, Miss Granger. They will only torment you. And surely," he added, "you must realize by now his outburst was made by jealously and nothing more."

She frowned. "Jealously, sir?"

Professor Snape sighed, and his voice carried sardonic tones. "Tell me, Miss Granger, has Mr Weasley ever answered a question to which you did not know the answer?"

Hermione shook her head. "I – I don't think so."

"Has he ever out–performed you in any of your classes?"

"Er, no, sir."

"Then his actions toward you should be obvious. He is immature and a Gryffindor. You should expect nothing more of him."

She nodded and looked upward at his quiet form, standing perfectly still. "I – I was wondering, sir – er, I mean ... " she paused, visibly flustered she couldn't articulate herself properly. "Professor, are you – that is, are my private lessons going to be cancelled?"

He appeared surprised, in his own way. "Is that what you desire, Miss Granger?"

"No! Er, I mean no, sir," she back peddled, startled by her own outburst. "After everything that happened, I was worried – that is, I thought as punishment that you'd ... " she trailed off, suddenly wishing she hadn't spoken at all.

"A word of advice, Miss Granger."

Hermione looked at him and tilted her head. "Sir?"

"Think before you speak."

Her cheeks burned and she averted her eyes, suddenly feeling too exposed to meet his gaze directly. "Er, yes, sir."

"Come, Miss Granger," he said flatly. "I shall escort you to the Slytherin Common room." He let her up, regarding her dusty robes with apparent distaste. "Ah, yes, I had almost forgotten." His lip curled slightly. "You shall report to my office this Tuesday evening for your detention – as well as every Tuesday throughout the remainder of November."

Hermione sighed, following him – wisely choosing to say nothing.

A/N: This chapter took a little longer than I anticipated – Snape is sometimes dreadfully difficult (for me) to write and I got stuck for a LONG while. At any rate, I apologize for the delay. My initial goal was to try to have a chapter a week, so hopefully I'll be able to stick with that. This chapter was one of the first things that came to mind when I set out to write this fic, so despite the delay in updating, I enjoyed writing it immensely. As always, your thoughts and comments are always appreciated. I hope to hear from all of you.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!! (Appropriate, isn't it? Since this chapter takes place on Halloween? :) ) I hope everyone has "wicked" costumes this year.