Chapter 43

Disclaimer: Not mine. I just borrowed them for a while. I promise to put them back when I'm done. Oh, nope, no money either...just for fun. Once again, what events that are not mentioned that happen in the books is as it happened in the books.

I want to give a great big thank you hug to my alpha reader, Arabellabloodgood, Proulxes for the bit of Brit-picking, and to DuchessOfArcadia for combing through this and helping me clean up my many mistakes. I really appreciate it more than you can possibly know.

Thank you, Jay, for the beautiful banner. I absolutely love it!

Snow was falling, swirling icy patterns on the windows all day, not that Severus needed the coming of the snow to remind him that his least favorite holiday was steadily approaching. Hagrid, full of good cheer, even without proper libations to liven his mood, had spent the afternoon hauling in the twelve Christmas trees to be set up that evening to decorate the Great Hall. Filius and his usual band of helpers set about levitating the garlands and ornaments onto the branches as soon as the evening feast was finished. Severus sneered at the boxes of ornaments, the same ones used every year. Naturally, the only green on the trees would be the pine needles. Sighing heavily, Severus adamantly refused to participate in the decorating and disappeared into his potions lab to try and resolve a cure for the seemingly incurable curse eating away at the Headmaster.

Severus could so easily predict the decor every year: everlasting candles inside the helmets of the suits of armor, which were charmed to sing Christmas carols as people passed, and those holding spears had colorful pennants and ribbons. Wreaths of garland were draped around the necks of the statues and gargoyles. Everlasting icicles and swags of greenery covered every banister; great bunches of mistletoe, holly and pine were strung across the corridors, which all the girls enjoyed loitering underneath in hopes of being kissed by that 'special' boy, and the boys tried every possible way to avoid...well, except the ones who liked kissing the girls. Either way, the congestion in the corridors and the occasional kissing pairs cost most of the houses dearly in the deduction of House points.

The next morning, as Severus entered the Great Hall to take his seat, he tried not to stare at the trees lining the walls, a hard feat considering each tree stood at an impressive eighteen to nineteen feet tall. Five trees stood on either side of the Hall, the shortest being at the back of the Great Hall, with two more standing in the corner behind the staff table, each of them hosting several thousands of fairies for the month. Eight of the trees, in sets of two...one on either side of the room...represented House themes: the Slytherin trees were almost all white and sliver, whereas the trees for other three houses were much more glaringly obvious, almost to the point of ridiculousness: reds and gold, blues and bronzes, yellows, gold and iridescent black. The four trees in the corners of the room were decorated in Dumbledore's favorite combination of orange, royal blue and purple with ample amounts of gold moons and silver stars, which matched his favorite set of robes.

Even the castle seemed to be in the festive mood, the Great Hall had easily widened the additional eleven to twelve feet on both sides of the already huge room to accommodate the extra space needed so that the students who sat at the Hufflepuff and Slytherin tables could actually get to their seats for meals.

The huge trees also provided ten very secluded recesses for amorous teens to hide away for various nefarious activities, adding an additional ten minutes to Severus' nightly patrol of the castle.

He turned to face Minerva, who for some ungodly reason had a twig of holly and thistle pinned to her hat. "Er," he said, lowering his gaze from the ridiculous adornment, "you wanted the list of students remaining at school over the holiday this year." He handed her the sheet of parchment.

Usually there were only two or three names on the list; few Slytherins ever stayed over the holiday, but this year he had twenty-seven, several whose parents wrote to him weighing in their concerns for their child's safety over taking the risks of bringing home for the holiday. Seventeen of them were, of course, Severus' group of Slytherins who had all wanted to stay at the castle to avoid entanglements with the Dark Lord's supporters. He'd already received several letters, and more than a few Howlers, from their parents about this, writing in outrage that their son or daughter was not traveling home. But Severus had replied that it was a family matter, and although he'd be supervising them while in residence, he had no say in whether or not they chose to remain at the castle. He did mention in the letters that he would purchase them tickets if the student changed their mind, but only gave them two days to reply. He was sure the Dark Lord would summon him over this matter in the next few days or so.

Minerva accepted the parchment, and her eyes widened when she scanned down the list of names. "Twenty?" She turned to look at him. "Twenty...?"

"Yes, twenty-seven, as of last night; all of them confirmed," he said drolly as if this were not at all unusual. "In case you haven't noticed, there is a war brewing out there, and they wish to remain here where it's safe."

"Surely your Slytherin's are not in danger from You-Know-Who?" Minerva asked as if this were utterly obvious to anyone.

Severus's jaw clenched. "Being a Slytherin does not automatically equate to being a Death Eater," he growled through gritted teeth in frustrated anger. He lowered his voice as he leaned closer to her, "Not all Slytherins are destined to join him, and not all the Death Eaters are Slytherin alumni...there are quite a few Gryffindor Death Eaters, Minerva. You'd best remember that."

He sat back and placed his napkin on his lap, ignoring her icy stare. He sipped his coffee as the morning post arrived. He opened the Daily Prophet and absentmindedly scanned down the list of new Ministry appointments, and the article on the confiscation of three kiosks in Diagon Alley supposedly selling medallions and amulets to ward off Dark wizards and various unlicensed brews and tinctures as cure-alls for curses and hexes that the terrified witch or wizard might be conned into buying for protection. Staying home, hidden under their bed would work better, he thought bemusedly.

There were, of course, more people declared missing, although apparently Brighid and Alexander MacChlurian had simply been on holiday when their residence had been burned to the ground with the Dark Mark floating in the smoke.

Hamish O'Conchobhair, a well respected magical carpenter and creator of Vanishing Cabinets, apparently fought off two Death Eaters in his shop the day before, but no one knew where he was presently. Not surprising, Severus sneered. He was either transfigured into a log or he ran off to Honduras or someplace with tall trees to hide.

He scanned down the page recognizing the name in the next article immediately.

Robert Osborne, Muggle-born and loving father and husband, was found dead several blocks from the Brahms and Liszt pub in Clerkenwell, the victim of serious internal injuries apparently caused by a curse that left no discernable external symptoms. Healers are stumped by the cause of death. ... continued on page four

Severus knew Robert Osborne; Mr. Osborn had been in his sixth year when Severus started teaching, and he'd caught Mr. Osborne on several occasions brewing illicit potions, absinthe and ale in unused classrooms. He turned to page four to read the article on Robert Osborne's murder and was surprised to read a Healer actually described the full effect of the curse... in print.

"The Aurors thought it was the Killing Curse at first until we did a diagnostic check and saw all the damage done: heart, lungs, intestine, everything. We've seen this type of curse before, but it's not the Killing Curse, more a slashing and tearing of the internal organs, like a knife or dagger slashing a zigzag motion on the inside, tearing everything up. Usually we expect to see a zigzag wound or deep lacerations on the victim's body with this kind of internal trauma, but thing is, Osborne didn't have any outward marks...no lacerations or curse burns on the skin...nothing. However, with a strike this vicious, we have no means of saving the victim's life. Whatever they call this one, it should be another Unforgivable Curse," Healer Pye said in an unofficial statement. "We know of one victim to have survived this curse, a girl, just this last June, in fact, but the victim was not treated here. I think she was healed at Hogwarts, and I was told the laceration on the girl's chest didn't go in very deep...just down to her chest bone and ribs. But how the young lady survived is a mystery. She was extremely lucky to have lived....

Of all the...the dunderhead, should have kept his trap shut! Severus snarled to himself. Divulging so much information to that scandal-mongering, Wilma Warren. The witch is a bad as Rita Skeeter.

It was Antonin Dolohov's twisted version of the Entrails-Expelling Curse, he was sure of it.

Robert Osborne was a Muggle-born who married the last daughter of the Throkmorton line and sole beneficiary of Erasmus Throckmorton. Mr. Throckmorton had died last year, leaving his entire estate, including a sizable property in Warwickshire, to his daughter, Katherine, nineteen at the time, to care for his sickly sons, Clemet and Nicholas, instead of giving guardianship to his half-sister, Marjorie Dolohov nee Throkmorton. Katherine married Robert Osborne three months later, and the boys died of dragon pox last summer, the center of some scandal within the Dark Lord's circles.

A movement at the Gryffindor table caught Severus' notice. Miss Granger appeared upset by something, shaking her head while Miss Weasley and Mr. Potter both seemed to be consoling her. Severus wondered who said what to upset her so, but doubted that it was Potter, or she'd have brushed his arm off her, and Mr. Weasley was too busy shoveling food into his mouth as if it were his last meal while Miss Brown babbled away at him to have been the culprit. And across the table, Mr. Thomas was looking at whatever Mr. Finnigan was showing him under the table... There was no one else around her. One small book sat on the table near Hermione's plate, although from his angle he couldn't tell if she'd received a letter this morning. He had noticed that she'd had three post deliveries that morning: a barn owl had delivered the Daily Prophet, a grey owl had delivered either a magazine or journal publication, and a school horned owl had delivered something wrapped in brown paper and tied in a string, possibly a package from home or the book by her plate.

As he watched, covering his interest by taking a long sip of his coffee, Miss Granger quickly stood up and grabbed her bag. Miss Weasley grabbed the book and scrambled to get up as well as Hermione fled from the Great Hall. He set down his cup and took a bite of eggs. Whatever it was, Miss Weasley would console her. He finished his breakfast and left the Great Hall to prepare for his first lesson.

When Miss Granger entered his classroom, she looked forcefully composed, but she didn't have the normal tell-tale signs of having been crying, if she had been crying. He stood up and began his lecture for the morning on how the effects of some spells, once used for practical purposes, could be modified and twisted into Dark Arts spells or Dark Curses. He had a list of two hundred examples on the blackboard; some that on first glance seemed benign, but with the right intent were, in fact, quite cruel and manipulative, but the others on his list could be misused for ill intent, causing physical and mental harm, even to the point of death or permanent damage to the victim.

Throughout the lesson, Miss Granger had taken fastidious notes, as she was wont to do, dipping her quill quickly so as to catch his every word. However, when she raised her hand at every question, her eyes did not have the enthusiastic sparkle they normally did.

"Jelly-Legs for example," he said, starting with one that he hated in particular, having been the victim of it in his youth, noting that a few students snickered slightly under their breath, "seems to be a benign spell, a simple prank, but the base of the incantation is gelato, from gelāta...Latin for frozen, equivalent to the Latin gel...for freeze plus āta or ate, and combined with the specific body part to affect, in this case, cruris meaning the leg. Gelato cruris. However, creative minds also came up with the following: Gelato brachium, brachium meaning the forearm from elbow to wrist, or Gelato humerus, effecting the upper arm and shoulder, and Gelato lingual, which affects the tongue, and finally, Gelato cerebrum...which as you all know, turns the brain to mush, into a gel. Thankfully, modern healing has a known treatment for the Jelly-Brains Hex, however, fifty years ago when this delightful hex was created, they did not. The victim lived in a state of catatonic coma, or brain death, eventually dying a very slow death. Lately, a variation of the spell, possibly Gelato viscerum, has been seen...a modification in which the internal organs or entrails are turned into a gel-like state. Unfortunately, so far, this variation is fatal."

He could see Mr. Longbottom cringe at the description; the boy had been the victim of the Jelly-Legs and Jelly-Brain Hex before, both times having been quickly set to right by Madam Pomfrey.

Yes, they were beginning to understand. He continued down his list, not sparing them any of the grotesque details of the effects, or the type and permanence of the damage inflicted.

Eventually he got to the spells that were the more dangerous and difficult to defend oneself against. He should know...he'd personally seen their effect on more than one occasion. "Sometimes, a wizard may develop a curse whose effect is varied depending on intent or strength of determination behind the incantation." He flicked his wand at the blackboard and a new list appeared, some of the more ghastly but newer curses currently being used. As he went down his list, graphically describing each curse and knowing which of the Death Eater preferred which curses, his gaze frequently paused on Miss Granger, watching her for any signs of distress. She rarely looked up unless he posed a question, and when she did, her eyes looked haunted.

In a way he was pleased when he got to the end of his list. "The Entrails-Expelling Curse has been around since the thirteenth century. In its earliest form, it was created as a means of magically gutting game or livestock, but it was often used as a killing curse in time of war. Many of the victims were thought to be slain by means of a sword, those few who survived or who died slowly claimed to be victims of witchcraft or the work of a demon. If poorly executed, the curse will only slash the skin across a victim's abdomen as if cut with a saber, or can be as weak as a scratch...depending on the conviction of the caster to cause harm. To gut a person the caster has to mean it...they have to want to slash the victim open...want to kill them to make the spell effective." He noticed Miss Granger's face turn pale and her hand began shaking. "Miss Granger, is there a problem?"

"Er, no, sir," she replied weakly.

He nodded, watching her a moment and then continued, "The Entrails-Slashing Curse is a deviation of the Entrails-Expelling Curse. It is defined by the purple hue of the spell matching the zigzag motion of the wand movement. It was invented to cause severe internal damage, tearing and rending the internal organs without actually gutting the victim. If the determination behind the intent is not strong enough, or if the caster is unfamiliar with the spell, it could mimic the Entrails-Expelling Curse, however slicing through the breast bone and ribs as well. The Entrails-Expelling Curse does not generally slice through bone. However, someone attempting the Entrails-Slashing Curse could simply slash the victim from chest to navel if the intent isn't desirous enough."

Miss Granger was grabbing at her chest, her expression stricken and her face paled.

"The Killing Curse is the only spell known today that does not have a modified effect, it either kills or it doesn't." When the bell tolled the end of the lesson, Severus called out, "Miss Granger, remain behind."

She nodded and slumped in her seat. Potter, ever the concerned friend, patted her arm and said he'd wait for her, but she shook her head and gave him a weak smile. "No, Harry, I'm fine. I'll see you in the library later, all right?"

"All right, Hermione," he replied, grabbing his bag.

Severus waited until they were alone before flicking his wand at the door. "What is bothering you? And don't say nothing, I can clearly see that something has upset you," he said, leaning against the side of his desk, watching her intently as she looked down at her hands and shrugged. "Is it what happened at breakfast?"

She looked up, startled, so apparently he'd guessed correctly.

"It was one of the articles in the Daily Prophet."

He narrowed his eyes; that was not what he'd expected. He tried to recall which article would have upset her this much. He didn't think she knew any of the missing victims of the Death Eaters.

"The one about Mr. Osborn," she added to fill in the silent void.

He wondered if she knew Katherine or Robert Osborne, but seriously doubted it. Katherine had left Hogwarts in 1994, the end of Miss Granger's third year, and she'd been in Slytherin, taken Charms, Herbology and Ancient Runes, if he recalled correctly, but little else. So he waited, keeping his expression one of mild concern. He wasn't good at this, emotional support, but for some reason he was willing to try.

She lowered her head. "I was..." She looked up but did not meet his gaze. "I'm the girl mentioned in the article. I thought that... medical information was private."

Severus didn't know how to respond to that. "Healer Pye behaved unprofessionally in disclosing your medical details to that reporter, but I assure, most Healers keep patient information confidential."

"It was Antonin Dolohov who cursed me. Neville said he used a spell with a purple zigzag... just how you described it... that Entrails-Slashing Curse." She looked up at him. "He wasn't caught...that night, he's still out there, isn't he? And now he knows it was me...that I survived his curse. The article all but said my name."

He knew that Dolohov hated Hermione, blamed her for making him miss cutting Potter, but Rabastan Lestrange and Mulciber had both told him a different version; Dolohov never had a clear shot, Potter, Hermione and Neville were under a desk, all three firing defensive spells at them. "Hermione, your medical information was not divulged to anyone out side of school. Madam Pomfrey must make reports of all school-related injuries to the Headmaster, the student's Head of House and the student's parents, but she'd never divulge information to anyone else without proper consent. Your parents were informed but they were not given specifics, only that you'd been hit by a curse and properly healed," he said, but by her downcast expression, that was not the problem.

He reached out and tipped her face up so he could look her in the eyes. "Hermione, what is the matter?" he prompted, hoping she'd confide in him.

"I survived. Like Harry did, I survived a curse most people die from. It's... it's unnerving." She turned to look at the blackboard, and he regretted that he hadn't erased the list of spells yet. "How did I survive? I tried blocking it, but I missed, didn't I? Or it went around...got by my deflection charm and," she said while tracing her finger diagonally across her chest and down between her breasts. "I'd failed to defend myself, yet I managed to... to somehow stop it from cutting my insides all to shreds."

Severus remembered the wound; Madam Pomfrey had consulted with him on how to heal her. Most of the damage hadn't gone too deep. Sure Dolohov had sliced her breastbone and a few ribs, but her lungs were only minimally damaged, and Madam Pomfrey had healed her in a matter of seconds. Severus had made her healing ointment himself and knew that she only had a pale line making a lightning bolt-like scar that ran downward left to right diagonally across her chest between her breasts, cutting back from under her right breast to her left, and then pointed down about six inches toward her navel. But it was not all that noticeable now. The image of her standing in front of him in her bikini, her breasts cupped in two tiny triangles held by thin string-like straps as she took the towel from his hands came to his mind. Her breasts were perfect. Her body was perfect.

He forced himself back to the present; no point dwelling on that which was utterly unattainable. "Your..." He froze, the words 'scar doesn't show' stuck like a craw in his throat. He realized he had been staring at her chest where her fingers rested, still touching where her scar was. He couldn't finish the sentence out loud.

He looked at her; her expressive, guileless doe-like eyes staring back at him with unconditional... what? Trust? He threw up his shields, straightening his back so he stood taller. The effect didn't work so well in her school shoes; she was only four or five inches shorter than he was, so she could almost look him in the eyes. That and she was no longer intimidated by him, a fact he appreciated and that annoyed him at the same time. "I'm not sure how you survived," he said, breathing in before adding, "But I'm glad that you did."

Her eyes widened as she stared at him, a smile slowly forming, lightening up her face, hell, his entire classroom.

"Go. You..." She had a revision break presently, but his next group of students were waiting to be let in. "I have a lesson to teach."

"Oh, yes, right, sorry," she stammered, backing up toward her desk. "Sev-er...Professor, I just wanted to say, thank you, for everything."

He nodded, smirking inwardly at her slip of tongue. "You're welcome. Now go."

She grabbed her bag and hurried from the classroom, letting his four-years in to take their seats.

Ginny had dragged Hermione out to Quidditch practice, telling her that it was unhealthy to holdup in the library every spare moment, breathing in the dust and mold from the old musty books. Even though Hermione had protested that the library was not moldy, musty or all at all dusty, she finally conceded to read out on the stands and watch her friends play.

Hermione had spent weeks trying to determine who the mysterious Half-Blood Prince could be. She'd searched every Potions periodical, journal, and even the codex of all the Potions books in the library...well, not the ones in the Restricted Section, she couldn't come up with a reasonable excuse to ask any of her professors for permission to search in there. For someone who was obviously extremely brilliant at Potions, innovative and with an intrinsic knowledge of potions and how ingredients interacted that she envied, he, or she, there wasn't even one article or one paper in any of the Potions publications written by anyone named Prince as far as she could tell.

She had checked every social register, every Witch Weekly, and every Daily Prophet, but there was not one mention of a Prince in the wizarding world or any mention of royalty at all...none. There was something about that book, this mysterious Prince that was utterly suspicious. The spells that Harry mentioned that the Prince created made her apprehensive; the few that Harry had tried seemed terribly dodgy, like Dark Arts, not Charms, meant to harm or embarrass the victim, and according to Harry, most of them didn't offer any explanation as to what the spell did, just a two-word note like: 'for privacy,' 'for revenge,' or 'for enemies.' It was the 'for enemies' which concerned her the most. She'd been furious with Harry on more than one occasion for trying the Half-Blood Princes' spells out on Ron. He could have seriously hurt him! So far he'd tried the Langlock, Levicorpus and the Liberacorpus to counter it, Muffliato, and the Toenail-Growing Hex, Unguiculaugeo, as well as Cornuimmanis that created huge cutaneous horns on the victim's body, although who he'd tied that one on, Hermione didn't know.

And she didn't think it was entirely fair that Harry was using it to cheat in Potions. Nor would he let Hermione look through the book. He kept it with him all the time, hiding it quickly if she got too curious, or stormed up to his room. Ginny didn't think the book harmful, at least not in the same sense as Tom Riddle's diary had been.

Hermione looked up as Ron made a spectacular save and saw Romilda in the stands cooing and cheering at Harry, the same as Lavender used to do to Ron...well still did. It didn't matter; Harry was infatuated with Ginny, anyone who knew him as well as she did could plainly see that. Although with the upcoming Christmas party Slughorn was planning, there were a number of girls who wanted to go...any chance to dress up in fancy robes and dance the evening away, apparently. Even Ron wanted to attend. Hermione turned her head, easily spotting McLaggen as he shouted suggestions to the Quidditch players, not that they were paying him any mind.

He turned, jutting his chin up as he smiled at her, and Hermione forced herself not to cringe. She'd accepted his invite simply because there had been no other offers. She had planned on asking Ron, but he was still seeing Lavender.

She turned to watch Ron. When Professor McGonagall had collected all the names of those staying in the castle for Christmas or needing passage booked on the Hogwarts Express, Hermione had put her name as one of the students leaving for home, since she had decided to spend Christmas with her parents this year. So far Ron hadn't extended the invitation to the Burrow, but Ginny had, although she'd said she'd understand if Hermione chose not to.

Hermione had been noticing at the few times she'd seen professor Dumbledore at meals, that his right hand looked dead...shriveled and necrotic, but when she'd passed Dumbledore in the corridor, his hand hadn't smelled like decay...it hadn't smelled at all. And he was holding his arm in such a way as to protect his forearm, as if whatever was ailing him extended to his elbow. Hermione knew it had to be a curse, some sort of curse that Severus and Madam Pomfrey couldn't reverse...she was sure of it. Severus' project, the one he worked in into the late morning hours, it was trying to find a cure, another thing she was sure of.

If it was this bad, and neither Dumbledore, Severus or Madam Pomfrey could find a cure, that meant it was bad, really bad.

Hermione wondered if this would be her last Christmas spent with her parents.

She looked up at the castle. If Dumbledore dies, then what? What would happen to Severus, would he have to go and be with Voldemort all the time, doing his bidding? Would Voldemort make another attempt on Harry? Is Harry ready? She forced herself not to answer her own questions, as she watched Harry flying high up in the pitch on his broom. Oh god, Harry, are we ready for this?

Professor Snape flicked his wand at the blackboard and another list appeared. "Your assignment is to write a list for each of these hexes: the effect, the trajectory pattern and color, wand movement, the counter spells, and listing which defensive spell would be the most effective against each one. The yellow ones are all the hexes you should have learned to date, if you'd had competent teachers in this subject," Professor Snape stated. "The white hexes have been documented by the Healers at St. Mungo's and the Auror office, and many do not have known reversing spells yet, but they are variations of preexisting spells...identify which ones. I want you to estimate what the trajectory pattern and color of the new version would be, if the wand movement were the same. You're to consider the Latin words that may be used as their incantation based upon what the hex does, and then hypothesize which defensive spell might best protect you from the hex...due by Monday's lesson."

There was a general groan in the room, and Professor Snape's eyes narrowed. "Yes, all three hundred. I would think you'd be too busy writing them all down to protest against the assignment." He crossed his arms and glared down his nose at the class. "I doubt any of you will do well on the newer spells, but I want you to try. I will give you ten House points for each correct answer." He turned to look at Hermione. "I expect a list, Miss Granger, not an essay on each one," he stated, staring pointedly at her. "Not a sentence or an explanative dribble, a list, or you'll be spending every Monday night with me in detention."

Hermione simply nodded as she finished copying the list on the board.

On Harry's other side, Ron mumbled, "As if the git needs a reason to put her in detention."

"Ron, hush," Hermione hissed as Lavender scowled at him.

"What?" he asked Lavender.

"At least it's a list," Harry stated. "Not a five foot essay like he normally sets us."

"This is for our own good," Hermione stated as she began stacking her parchments.

Professor Snape looked up at her and then casually dismissed the class.

"Whew," Harry said with a whistle. "You escaped that one."

"No whistling in my classroom, Mr. Potter, you are not a teakettle. Ten points from Gryffindor," Professor Snape snapped.

"Git," he hissed softly as he turned to hurry from the classroom.

"Harry!" Hermione said, looking up from packing her bag. He looked at her and furrowed his brow in confusion. "Nothing. Go on, I'll catch up to you."

Harry shook his head and hurried out after Ron. She approached Professor Snape's desk cautiously, hoping to ask him about wandless magic.

"Not now, Miss Granger," Professor Snape said, flicking his wand to make the blackboard read the list of defensive spells for his next lesson. He looked tired to her; his shoulders were relaxed, but slightly slumped as if he was fighting fatigue. She wondered if he was sleeping well. "I haven't the time lately to add anymore private lessons, but if I can find the time, I will inform you, disguised carefully to seem as if it were a detention to your peers."

She nodded in understanding, but that was not what she wanted to ask. She bit her lip, deciding to voice her concern. "Sir, I was wondering, the spells...the new ones, are they..."

"Are ones that the Order have asked me about or that have been reported to Dumbledore as well as ones that have been relayed to me through other sources," he said, his voice thick and wary, not the normal tone he used while teaching.

She nodded, understanding. "Is there anything I can do to help? Maybe some research..."

"And just how much do you think you could contribute?" Professor Snape turned to look at her, and she could see the dark circles under his eyes. "There are people who whose sole occupation is curse and Dark Arts reversal, and not only in the Ministry and St. Mungo's."

"And yourself," Hermione added softly.

He looked down at the desk between them. "I have been asked, yes, but I have a project that has taken up much of my time as of late."

"Can I help you?" she asked, wondering if his project could be a potion.

"No, unfortunately," he said softly. "You had best go; you'll be late for Potions."

"You once said I was a big help," she said, trying not to sound hurt and failing. She turned away from him, hating how pitiful she sounded.

"Hermione," he said softly.

She turned back to face him, but he was leaning on his arms, his hands flat on his desk, his head bowed so his hair partially concealed his face. "Yes?"

"No one is supposed to know." His head rose so he could look her in the eyes, his hair limply framing his face. "I work late into the evening, sometimes into the early morning hours. Having you in my rooms that late at night would be inappropriate...you have to understand." He straightened slightly, moving his hair from his face. "It's not like when I was young and you were sleeping in my lab anyway. This is different," he said, moving his hand to indicate, "us, this...it's different."

"I understand," she replied. She did; he was right, it was inappropriate, but she wanted to all the same. "I should go," she sighed in regret. She turned to look at him as she opened the door. He was still watching her. One side of her mouth pulled back in a crooked smile. "See you at dinner," she mumbled softly and turned away.

Hermione left the classroom and hurried down to Potions. She saw Harry and Ron, thankfully Lavender free, up ahead in the Entry Hall, and she called out their names before Harry reached the stairs to the dungeons. Harry stopped and turned, waiting for her. As she passed Romilda Vane and her friends loitering near the marble staircase, she heard one of the girls mention Harry's name as she leaned close to Romilda's ear.

"I think Romilda Vane likes you, mate," Ron said, watching the girls over his shoulder as Hermione approached.

"Ron, watch where you're going," Hermione said, pulling on his arm so he didn't plow into a girl walking in their direction.

"She's all right," Harry said, turning to look. Romilda's friend giggled. "Why do girls giggle like that?"

"Really, Harry," Hermione said with a roll of her eyes. "Not all girls do."

"Yeah they do," Ron said as he lumbered down the stairs. And one second later, Ron and Harry switched the subject to when to schedule the next Quidditch practice, leaving Hermione to wonder what project Professor Snape was working on.

Severus managed to extract himself from the small group of revelers Slughorn insisted on introducing him to...again. He knew that Hermione was here, somewhere, in the crowd; he'd heard McLaggen asking Miss Lovegood if she had seen her. Miss Lovegood simply replied that she was avoiding all the nargles in the mistletoe or some such rot.

He scanned the revelers, avoiding eye contact with all of them, but didn't see her...hadn't seen her all evening. Too bad, she would have been the only person he'd have wanted to talk to at this bloody boring excuse to drink, not that he could be seen talking to her. Damn it to bloody hell. He hated parties.

He saw McLaggen and heard him ask Potter if he'd seen Hermione, smirking when Potter shook his head. Severus wondered where she was. After excusing himself from another group of inebriated guests, he overheard McLaggen asking Miss Weasley where Hermione, his date, was.

I can't believe that she came with that addlebrained oaf. But apparently she had. He looked around and couldn't see her anywhere either. Is she even here or has she come to her senses and left?

Suddenly Argus appeared, hauling Draco with him into the room. Severus moved closer as the boy confessed that he'd crashed the party, but he didn't believe the boy. Finally having a reasonable excuse to leave the soirée, he made his polite retreat. He pulled Draco out into the corridor and away from the few loitering outside the doorway.

"Why won't you confide in me, Draco?" Severus asked, not for the first time that evening.

He listened to the boy rant about not needing help, not wanting Severus to steal the boy's glory in his accomplishment, and how he was doing just fine without his help.

"So far your attempts have been incompetent, poorly thought out and easily thwarted," Severus sneered. "I made a Vow to your mother to assist you in any way I can."

"Yes, an Unbreakable Vow, right?" Draco spat. "Yes, my aunt told me about it."

Both of them turned at the sound in the corridor, the definite sound of a shoe scuffing on dirt or grit on the stone floor. Potter. Damn the boy's incurable curiosity and insufferable need to meddle. Unfortunately, the distraction gave Draco the opportunity to evade him and leave.

Severus watched the Hogwarts Express pull away from the platform from the shadows alongside the depot. Hermione was onboard, heading home. He'd overheard her telling Miss Weasley as they walked through the school gates that she wanted to spend the holidays with her parents. The idea both pleased and concerned him; she would not be moping about the Burrow mooning over Mr. Weasley, but she'd be in a Muggle home with the normal magical protections.

He turned to look at Madam Hooch and Hagrid as they strolled toward Hogsmeade, most likely joining others in a round at the Three Broomsticks before returning to the castle.

He leaned against the wall of the depot, staring at the junction in the road; one path led to the castle, the other to Hogsmeade, the station behind his back represented escape to a false sense of freedom and ultimately a slow painful death. An apt symbol of his life: Dumbledore...the Dark Lord...or run and be despised, hunted down and killed. He felt like he was stuck between masters, both manipulative, both scheming and either would sell his soul for their cause. One, a dying man who wanted Severus to kill him, his mentor for years, to rend his soul so he could take his place as headmaster and be loathed by everyone he liked and admired, or he could succumb to a narcissistic madman and wreck havoc on the world, becoming the black-hearted beast Lily always said he'd be.

Severus didn't want to spend the holiday carrying out Dumbledore's every whim like an attention-starved crup, or genuflecting before the Dark Lord, listening to him rant and rave about his superiority, his conquest of the ultimate power, and his ranting about bloody Harry Potter at every turn, hoping not to be Crucioed or fed to his pet snake.

He couldn't go home; the rat, Peter Pettigrew, was still living there.

He couldn't leave the country; the Dark Lord would want his services, and if he left the school, he would expect him to join the other Death Eaters in some murder, mayhem and madness devised by either the Dark Lord himself or Bellatrix or Avery. If he did leave the country, there was also the added threat of termination; the Dark Lord had killed Karkaroff and many others for fleeing after his reemergence into snake-like human-ish form. And his influence was spreading wider, even as far south as Italy and east to Belarus and Romania...and anyway, if he did join his brethren in basking in the Dark Lord's presence, he'd have to listen to Lucius bemoaning his fall from grace and Bellatrix's zealot machinations and constant fawning over the Dark Lord.

Happy Christmas, indeed.

A movement caught his attention: a student in Gryffindor robes hurried down the path toward Hogsmeade. She had chestnut-colored curls that bounced as she ran, but in his mind, Severus saw Hermione, only fourteen as she ran with him into the Forbidden Forest.

Well, if he couldn't do it for himself, he could ensure that hers was a happy Christmas.

She had been the only really positive thing in his teenage life; she had helped him and supported him without expecting anything in return, and she would still help and support him unconditionally today if he'd let her. Even now, months after her Bloom, he was still attracted to her, try as he might to fight against it. Sometimes late at night, when the weight of it all felt like it could crush him, when he was ready to call it quits, he'd read his diary, and remembered how his teenage self had felt. How his other selves had felt. Regret. His regret. Always regret. More than once he'd thought of going back, using her Time Turner to escape...to change his fate. But it had been destroyed during that bungled raid on the Ministry. Bugger.

Bugger it to hell. He knew where she lived. He knew that the Ministry had put protections on her home. But they wouldn't be enough. The standard protections wouldn't keep her safe...the Death Eaters knew the spells as well...knew how to break them. If they knew where the house was, she'd be in danger. It wasn't all that hard to find Muggle homes; Muggles gave their addresses out too easily and to too many sources. Hell, even a bloody junk mail flyer or a magazine... All one had to do was look in the trash bins.

He also knew warding spells that even the Dark Lord didn't know...many of which he'd invented. And he'd put protections on their vehicles; that way, even if she...they left the house, she'd still be safe. He knew spells that made automotive transport very difficult to follow or track, especially if they left from a place that was secret kept, as he was sure her house was.

Decision made, he pushed off the wall and Apparated to Bexleyheath.

Severus sat in the chair in front of his fireplace, a snifter of fine whiskey beside him, holding a brown paper package on his lap. As per usual, the Headmaster and Heads of House had sent him their usual tokens: Dumbledore gave him a whirling, spindly gadget that whistled, which threatened to annoy him, and a book. Minerva gave him a book and a black scarf. Pomona gifted him a book, and Filius gave him a bottle of liquor. Madam Pomfrey gave him a vial of phoenix tears, several bezoars and some powdered unicorn horn and a few Chocolate Frogs. He smiled. Poppy had given him Chocolate Frogs ever since he was a third year when she found out he rarely received Christmas presents. The potion ingredients were her way of telling him to be safe.

But the plain brown package was addressed to him in simple, precise print that merely said,

To Professor Severus Snape

Scotland

He'd cast every hex, curse, Dark Arts and jinx detection he knew, and even used his foe glass on the package, but nothing seemed remiss. It remained inert, benign and apparently safe to open. He pulled the string and unfolded the paper.

It was a vintage, black Muggle men's travel toiletry case. He unzipped the case and peered inside, finding a Muggle Christmas card.

Below the sentiments Hermione had written, Happy Christmas, Severus. I hope this serves you well. Under the card were glass vials made from led crystal, tempered glass, fused quartz, Hebron glass and Bristol blue glass, a few silver and pewter tins and silver and ceramic jars... to hold his potions or potion ingredients for travel.

Once again she'd given him something thoughtful and meaningful. He'd simply sent her a beaded purse and a pair of tiny shears in a pendant sheath that she could wear around her neck when she was knitting that he'd seen in Hogsmeade the day she'd left on the train.

He stared into the flames, wishing that he was sixteen again, rather than her stern acerbic teacher. Life was so unfair.

~ T. B. .C. ~