Chapter 8

The next day, at breakfast in the Great Hall, Harry remarked that she was looking a little tired. Ron interjected, "Yeah, you've looked like a wreck all weekend, 'Mione!" and then colored red as he realized what he'd said. He stammered over himself, "Er... not that... I mean, you look fine, really... it's just..."

Hermione sighed and said, "It's fine, Ron. I understood what you meant. Anyway, I'm all right. Studying too much for N.E.W.T.s, I guess."

Harry and Ron exchanged a knowing look. Typical, it said.

Harry said, "You shouldn't push yourself so hard, Hermione. You've got dark circles under your eyes. I mean, not that... well, what Ron said. You look pretty rough."

Ron glanced at his friend appreciatively. "See!"

A faint smile touched Hermione's lips; they were endearing when they were protective. But her current problems were hardly a burden she wanted to share. She tried to imagine how that conversation would go: Well, guys, in the past three days I've been Petrified by rogue Death Eaters, given my first blowjob...which was to Professor Snape, by the way...and endured Cruciatus. Also from Professor Snape. How was your weekend? Her mouth quirked a little. It was slightly more than a butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks was likely to sort out.

"What's so funny?" asked Ron, looking hurt.

"You," Hermione said with affection. "Both of you. You're sweet, that's all. But really, I'll be fine."

Ron and Harry shared another glance, and then both of them shrugged, like mirror images. It was too ridiculous for Hermione not to laugh.

After breakfast, Ron accompanied Hermione out of the Great Hall and in a low voice said, "After dinner tonight, want to... hang out?"

The lightness of mood she'd been enjoying vanished instantly. "Hanging out" meant Ron coming to her room and groping and pawing at her for a while. She usually indulged him, working under the vague assumption that it's the sort of thing you're supposed to do as a girlfriend, but she simply couldn't stomach it tonight. Not tonight. Maybe not ever again. It was all she could manage not to grimace in revulsion at the thought of Ron's tongue probing her mouth and his big sweaty hands sliding up inside her jumper. She flashed to the memory of Snape kissing her, but she suppressed that thought instantly.

Ron was still at her side like an eager puppy, anxious for her answer.

"Oh, Ron," she said, "I just can't. I'm so swamped with research and studying, and I just don't have time. I'm going to probably spend most of the night in the library, to be honest."

I have a date with Professor Snape. This thought popped out at her with no warning, and she bit the inside of her cheek hard to keep from giggling. Ron had enough of an inferiority complex without his thinking she was laughing at him.

"Aw, 'Mione. Are you sure? You study all the time! Aren't you caught up by now?"

"Ron, N.E.W.T.s are important! Honestly, you should think about taking them a little more seriously yourself."

He rolled his eyes. This was well-traveled territory between them. "Yeah, right. Well, at least I'll see you in Potions later on."

"Yes. Later, Ron." Her tone brooked no further conversation.

Ron's shoulders slumped as he slouched off toward his next class. Hermione knew she'd have to end things with him, sooner rather than later. It had been coming even before the events of the prior weekend, but it felt more pressing now. She simply didn't think of him romantically. Not anymore. She wasn't sure she really ever had. He'd shown interest in her, and she'd been flattered by that, and of course they were good friends. But there was no spark, no fire. He didn't make her feel the delicious, shivery warmth expanding in her belly that she'd felt with Krum.

Krum, Hermione? I think the last time you felt that way was when you were kneeling between Snape's legs. She folded her arms over her chest and held them there tightly. This was exactly why things had to end with Ron. She had to sort out her feelings, and she had to do it alone. Without the help of Ronald Weasley. She hoped their friendship could weather the storm.

...~...~...

Potions class was a nightmare. She came prepared to simply ignore Professor Snape. She'd assumed that he would do the same. But instead he was... well, breathing down her neck. He'd begun by asking the class to name the three key ingredients of the Fleur-de-Lis potion. Hermione knew, obviously; it was a simple potion from the third-year book. But she didn't raise her hand. She didn't want to call attention to herself, didn't want to have to speak to Snape any more than necessary.

He apparently felt no such compunctions. "Miss Granger," he said, "I cannot fail to notice the lack of your eager hand, waving furiously in the air." Some of the Slytherins snickered, and her cheeks burned. Why is he doing this?

"Can you tell me," he asked her, "the ingredients of Fleur-de-Lis?" He drifted over to her desk, standing directly in front of her and tapping his wand on it. The wand she'd last seen pointed at her face while he Crucioed her.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

She hesitated and cleared her throat. "Uh, Professor, I believe they are forget-me-not, lily of the valley, and Jack-in-the-Pulpit, in equal proportions."

His voice was like a satin-sheathed knife. "Very good, Miss Granger. Five points from Gryffindor..." Her head shot up and she met his gaze for the first time, her eyes opened wide with confusion. "... for knowing the answer and not bothering to raise your hand." She heard open laughter from the Slytherins. Draco Malfoy in particular looked highly entertained by this new humiliation his Head of House was inflicting on their least-favorite classmate.

And then he did it again. Twice more he forced her to give the answer even though she hadn't raised her hand and then took House points from her after she answered correctly. When she finally did raise her hand in response to a question, he ignored her even though she was the only student with her hand in the air. She fought back hot, stinging tears of shame. He carried on this way for the duration of the class, forcing answers out of her if she didn't raise her hand and ignoring her raised hand when she did try to answer. Ron and Harry's faces were tight with fury, but there was nothing they could do. They'd learned from long experience that complaining to Snape about unfair treatment in class would only result in loss of House points, detentions, and other unpleasant punishments. So they watched impotently as Hermione bore her humiliation publicly and yet alone.

...~...~...

Snape did not fail to notice the glares being sent his way by Potter and Weasley. He wondered how much Granger had told them about her weekend activities and then decided she must have stayed quiet or the two boys would have had their wands at his throat before class even started. No, they were reacting solely to this little humiliation he was putting her through. When class ended, Granger rose stiffly from her desk and quickly turned to go...quickly, he suspected, because she wanted to leave before tears spilled openly down her face. That is what he had reduced her to.

He told himself that it would have been unusual for him not to humiliate a Gryffindor in his class. It certainly wasn't the first time he'd held a student up for ridicule in his classroom. Particularly not this student. He was only maintaining appearances. It was standard operating procedure for his class and nothing more.

And if there was a quiet voice in the back of his mind telling him that he had publicly humiliated her that day as a form of punishment, he ignored it. Ignored it almost completely. Punishing her for what, Severus? The crime of showing up in your fevered dreams?

...~...~...

Later that evening, Snape watched his office door in restless anticipation. He half-expected her to skip their appointment after what had happened in the classroom earlier. He eyed the pocket watch he'd left open on his desk. But just as the hour hand ticked onto the 7, there was a knock at the door.

He assumed the disdainful expression he customarily wore in the classroom and opened the door with a gesture.

She was in her Head Girl robes, he noted, and he realized that he'd expected her to be in the same cloak she'd worn the previous evening. She held a sheaf of loosely-bound parchment, and her face was taut and composed. She avoided his gaze as she entered.

"Miss Granger, I did not assign you homework for this meeting."

"No, sir." She looked toward the general direction of his face, but never into his eyes. "If you recall, the whole reason that I... that..." She faltered, but recovered quickly. "... that I was coming to find you on Friday is that I had a research proposal I wanted you to look over."

She never stops. Amazing.

Before he could respond, she said, "Please, Professor Snape. I know it's... it's extra work for you. I don't mean to burden you. But I think there are some good ideas there and I'd like you to read it. Please."

She was clutching the papers so tightly that they were crumpling slightly under her fingers. "Leave it on my desk," he told her. "I'll deal with it later."

She did as he said and then stood clasping her hands in front of her, twisting them together. Snape rose from his seat and approached her, coming close enough to make her flinch.

"Miss Granger, I am going to look into your eyes and then into your mind. I want you to try to stop me."

Before she could respond, he caught her gaze and said, "Legilimens."

Hermione felt him in her mind again, rifling through her memories and looking for something. She could tell that he sought a specific memory. She pushed back at him, but his presence in her mind was strong, massive, powerful. It was like pushing against a stone wall. Her efforts were weak and useless.

"Try harder, girl." She wondered faintly how he'd managed to speak, and then she redoubled her efforts to push him out, to no avail. Nothing she did seemed to have any effect at all.

And then he found the memory he sought. It was from earlier that weekend; she had been with Harry and Ron in the Gryffindor common room. Ron was talking about some Quidditch team he admired, while Hermione tried to hide her exhaustion and feign at least mild interest.

At first she couldn't think why Snape would be interested in this particular memory. And then with hot anger, she realized: He thinks I told them. And he wants to know what I said.

Sudden fury boiled out of her in a powerful, unstoppable flood, everything she'd felt and suppressed since the Death Eaters had Petrified her three days earlier, all the shame and fear and rage and anger. Her thoughts rose into a scream of outrage, "GET OUT! YOU HAVE NO RIGHT! HOW CAN YOU NOT TRUST ME? AFTER WHAT I DID FOR YOU, HOW CAN YOU NOT?" and then somehow, inside her mind, she pushed him.

He staggered backward, breaking eye contact. She found that tears were streaming down her cheeks. Snape's breathing was heavy and ragged, as though he'd just run a long distance.

Looking away from him, she said in a low voice, as steady as she could manage, "I never would have told. Never. Not to anyone."

"Granger, look at me."

She did, her eyes narrowed with anger. He said, "I knew you had not. But I wanted something specific and recent. I wanted to see if you could keep me out of such a memory. It... rather seems that you can. Although," he said with a twitch of his mouth, "it was not particularly subtle."

"No, Professor, I suppose it wasn't." The ghost of a smile touched her lips.

"You'll work on that. I shall attempt to view that same memory. Keep me away from it. Legilimens!"

I'm not ready! she wanted to say, but it was too late; he was inside her mind again, and there she was, sitting next to Ron and Harry, listening to them talk about Quidditch.

How can I keep him out? She'd managed it before only with an uncontrollable outburst of rage. His presence in her mind was too powerful; she couldn't get him out, couldn't stop him from seeing and hearing anything he wanted. But then... she had an idea.

With considerable effort, she summoned a different memory, of a day some weeks ago. In it, she sat next to Ron on her bed, running her hand along his leg and over his trousers. His face contorted with pleasure and his hands roamed over her jumper, squeezing and pinching her breasts through it. "'Mione," he groaned.

Inside her mind, Hermione felt Snape's focus turn to this new memory. The scene played in front of her eyes as though she were there again; she'd hidden her irritation at Ron's clumsy fumbling and let her hand drift over the crotch of his trousers. He gasped and she gave him a few light squeezes through the fabric. He tensed suddenly, moaned, and a large wet spot appeared under her hand. Ron's face colored red and he stammered, "Hermione... I didn't mean... it was just so good..."

She let him squirm in embarrassment for a few seconds before smiling and telling him it was fine, letting him off the hook. He got up and stumbled out of her room, unable to even look her in the face.

Snape abruptly withdrew from her mind; he stared at her in what appeared to be cold fury.

"Why did you show me that particular memory?"

She shrugged lightly, nervously. "You hate Ron. I thought that if I showed you some humiliation of his, it would distract you from the other one, the one you were after."

Snape's face hardened. "Do not presume to know my mind!"

"It worked, didn't it?" she snapped in return.

He couldn't argue with this and so only clenched his teeth together, a muscle working in his jaw. She was only partially right. Her distraction had worked, but not for the reason she thought. Seeing the Weasley boy's humiliation was entertaining enough, yes, but the real distraction was Hermione. He'd felt an unexpected wave of sheer, pulsing fury when she'd touched the boy's cock, followed by visceral satisfaction when she went on to rebuff his further advances. He'd let this completely distract him from his original purpose.

Had she known that he would have this reaction to seeing her touching someone else? Was she using him?

Get control of yourself, Severus. Do you really believe her to be capable of such manipulation? He glanced at her; she was wringing her hands together and avoiding his gaze. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to be rid of her.

"I think that's enough for now, Miss Granger. You may leave." He turned away from her, back to his desk...where her wretched research paper sat, waiting for him...but she didn't leave.

"Professor?" she asked. There was a hint of tremor in her voice. No. Just go. Please, just go.

"Miss Granger, I believe I dismissed you already."

"Sir, please. I need to say something."

He ground his teeth together again; the beginnings of a blockbuster headache were forming in his temples.

"Make it quick, Miss Granger; you may find this difficult to believe, but I have other things to do this evening than listen to you prattle."

After a brief pause, she said, "Professor Snape, it's about Potions class..." She took a deep breath, clearly trying to control herself. "Sir, I don't think I can withstand many more days like today."

He spun on her, his face tight with anger. "You can and you will, Miss Granger, because if any of those little Slytherin fucks that call themselves my students were to notice anything amiss between us, anything at all, any change, any deviation, then you may rest assured that they would instantly run back to Mummy and Daddy Death Eater and tell them all about it. And what do you think that the Dark Lord would do with this news?"

The blood ran out of her face. Didn't think about that, did you? he thought with bitter satisfaction. It was hardly the first time he'd savaged her with his words; he expected her to turn and run from the room. He wanted that.

Instead she lifted her eyes to his, her face pale but composed. She said, "Is there something amiss between us, Professor?"

He froze. She only waited with her bright brown eyes and her messy curls, biting her lip and waiting for his answer, the answer that was so apparent in his mind that if she'd had the slightest skill in Legilimency, she'd have been able to pluck it straight from the air.

He let the corner of his mouth pull up into a sneer, assumed his most intimidating professorial tone, and said, "There is not, Miss Granger. If there were, your life would be forfeit as surely as mine would. Now. Get. Out."

At last she did, closing the door behind her. He watched the space where she had been, and he knew that he had just told her a lie.