Chapter 9

Author's Note: In this version of the universe, there is a Yule Ball every year at Hogwarts.

...~...~...

It was an hour and a much-needed tumbler of Firewhiskey later when he finally picked up her papers from where she'd left them on his desk. H. Granger, it said in neat lettering at the top of the first page. Precise. Always precise. Always logical.

Undoubtedly she analyzed him as she analyzed everything else in her life. He could find out easily enough. He could drag up her memories of him and examine them, moment by moment, feeling everything that she felt and hearing every last one of her thoughts. If he cared enough to, of course.

He laughed, a short bark. Hardly. He hardly cared what she thought of him. At any rate, it was obvious. He'd violated her, tortured her, made her scream in agony. The only possible feeling she could have toward her tormentor would be hatred. Pure, unrefined hatred. He didn't need to look inside her mind to see that. She must find his presence intolerable. It was surprising to him that she had even agreed to Occlumency lessons.

Well, she wasn't lacking in courage. That much was clear. And he was used to being reviled by the people around him. She was no different. Just another student.

He ground his teeth. No, she would have been just another student, if she hadn't been so damnably ill-fortuned as to run into a pair of Death Eaters while trying to deliver a fucking research paper, of all things. Now she was... a distraction. A distraction that he neither needed nor wanted.

He wanted to hate her in return. He certainly had in the past, along with her obnoxious friends. And it was her fault that he'd been forced into this situation. Her fault that he was so fucking distracted. But he couldn't. He'd tried to summon it up, tried so many times, but it simply wasn't there to be summoned.

And every time he thought of her, he remembered. Even now, the image of her chestnut curls moving between his legs rose unbidden to his mind.

No. A wave of self-disgust swept over him, so powerful that it brought bile to his throat.

He shook it off. He was stronger than this. She was just another student, nothing more. Speaking of which... he reached out and opened her paper to the first page, beginning to read.

...~...~...

An hour later, he had not moved other than to turn pages, some of them now dog-eared as he'd gone back and forth multiple times, checking again and again to make sure he was reading her work correctly.

She cannot possibly understand what she has discovered.

He was vaguely aware that his heart was pounding. The implications were staggering, if the girl's theories were correct. It's Granger; of course they are, he thought. But he hadn't stayed alive as long as he had by relying on unverified information. It would be a sleepless night in the lab.

Granger's work was nominally about increasing the range and power of certain spells. But the really interesting part, the part that had made his mouth go dry and his hands tremble when he read it, had been tucked into a tangential side-discussion, almost a footnote. She couldn't have realized what she'd found, or she'd have already gone to the Order.

Instead she'd come to him. After everything he'd done... she'd come to him. But he'd consider the implications of that later; he had more pressing obligations at the moment.

His mouth twitched as he realized that at last he had actually found a use for firedrake scales. Bellatrix was quite correct; he did indeed have a stash of them in his quarters. It always pays to hedge one's bets. He'd procured a supply long ago, when he'd first had the idea to bait Voldemort with them. If the Dark Lord ever became suspicious or impatient, Snape would be able to produce the scales to buy himself some more time.

But he was nowhere near stupid enough as to keep them in his storeroom. They were underneath one of the flagstones in the hearth. And for now that is where they would stay; no need getting too excited until he'd done some tests first. Firedrake scales were, after all, quite difficult to obtain.

Snape found that he was looking forward to the prospect of spending a long night hard at work on testing a new potion, free from other worries or distractions.

Hard work is exactly what you need right now, Severus. Stay disciplined, stay focused, and you will stay alive.

He rolled up his sleeves.

...~...~...

The next morning, Hermione sat in Herbology class and tried to pay attention to what Professor Sprout was saying about homunculi roots. The night before had again failed to bring sleep. At breakfast, Ron, with typical tact, had said, "Hermione, you look like hell!" She'd rolled her eyes and ignored him, but she had to admit he was right. The exhaustion and turmoil of the previous few days showed plainly on her face. Her eyes were bloodshot with dark circles underneath, and her hair was a wreck... or somewhat more of a wreck than usual, anyway. She felt as though she could crawl under her bedcovers and stay there for a week.

But N.E.W.T.s loomed on the horizon. And Snape's attempts to teach her Occlumency...couldn't forget that. Doomed attempts, she thought. She'd just barely been able to push him out of her mind with pure rage, and she'd been able to briefly distract him with... well, with Ron. But those would hardly work on Lord Voldemort.

Of course, finding herself in front of Lord Voldemort would mean that so many things had gone so badly wrong that her failure to Occlude would be no more than a minor detail under the circumstances. But Snape wouldn't be bothering to try to teach her if he didn't think it was a possibility.

"Miss Granger!" Hermione's head snapped upright and she realized that Professor Sprout had called her name several times already. "Everything all right, my dear?" the short old professor said, frowning.

Hermione turned pink and said, "Yes, Professor. Sorry, just a bit tired today. I apologize."

Her instructor waved a dismissive hand and said, "No need! Simply explain to me how one goes about uprooting a mandrake," carrying on as though nothing were amiss. But Hermione berated herself for the lapse. Pull yourself together, for Merlin's sake. You can't let on that anything is wrong.

She forced herself to be more attentive for the rest of Herbology. Afterward was lunch, and Hermione nearly excused herself early to avoid having to feign interest in her friends' conversation until she noticed that Ron and Harry were talking about Quidditch. It would have been more unusual for her to participate in a Quidditch discussion. She turned her attention to her lunch instead and worked on quieting her mind and stilling her jangling nerves. Potions class was next.

Hermione entered the classroom two minutes before class was scheduled to begin, daring only a quick look at Professor Snape out of the corner of her eye. She kept her head down and made her way quickly to her lab table, hoping to avoid notice.

Today, though, Professor Snape seemed distracted. He assigned the class the relatively simple task of brewing the first stage of Polyjuice potion and then retreated to a shadowy corner of the classroom, lurking there in his usual bat-like way. Hermione breathed a quiet sigh of relief as she realized that today she would not be held in the crucible.

As she worked on unsucculating her first leech, she allowed herself a few glances in Snape's direction. His brow was furrowed, and he had a distant expression in his eyes. He was clearly deep in thought. She wondered whether it had anything to do with her, but then told herself to leave it. He was ignoring her, and that's exactly what she wanted. Isn't it?

At the least it was better than yesterday. After his outburst the previous evening, she had expected more, and worse. Perhaps he was saving it all for their next Occlumency lesson. She sighed, a little more loudly than she'd intended, and then she dared a look at Snape. He was still frowning off into the distance.

Well, good, she thought and turned back to her work. Neville's cauldron, situated directly next to hers, was glowing a faint pink. She thought she might lend him a subtle hand before the whole thing went pear-shaped...quite literally; it looked to her eye as though the mixture was building up to a small explosion...and attracted the eye of Professor Snape. No, today she was quite happy to escape his notice.

Though she did wonder what had him so preoccupied.

...~...~...

As soon as class finished, Hermione put away her notes and quills and parchment, moving so quickly that her hands shook slightly. She wasn't ready for another conversation with Snape. Not yet. She intended to be gone before he had a chance to confront her. She saw him move out of the corner of her eye, and without looking in his direction, she shouldered her bag and hurried from the room. She knew she couldn't avoid him forever; she didn't even want to. Just for right now. Just for today.

Before she'd made it halfway to the stairs at the end of the hall, though, she heard Ron behind her, calling out, "Hermione! Wait!" She stopped, arranged her face into a semblance of a smile, and turned to face him, her eyes flickering to the Potions classroom door for only the tiniest fraction of a second.

"What's up, Ron?" Her voice sounded much more pleasant and light-hearted than she really felt. Gods, she wanted sleep. She turned to continue down the hall, but Ron, failing yet again to read her body language, stayed exactly where he was, clearly intending to have this conversation right there in the dungeons. She suppressed an irritated sigh. It was just as well this way. It was cold down here, and damp, and the discomfort would keep them from having a lengthy chat.

"Well, uh... I was just wondering... you know..."

It took all of her willpower not to shriek at him to spit it out already.

"The uh... the Yule Ball..." Oh, Gods. Of course. Hermione felt sick. How am I going to get out of this?

Hogwarts' annual Yule Ball was approaching. It was an excuse for the students, particularly the sixth- and seventh-years, to dress up and put on grownup airs for a night. This year, with the war against Voldemort in full swing, the student body needed it more than ever. Hermione had overheard countless discussions and debates about who was to accompany whom. The political intrigue was enough to rival the most complicated machinations at the Ministry of Magic.

Most years, Hermione hadn't even bothered to find a date. There had been the once with Krum; she had to admit that had been quite lovely. But generally she found the Ball a tiresome nuisance, serving no purpose but to distract her from her studies. Her sole concession to taking the damn thing seriously was asking Ginny Weasley for help in finding an appropriate gown and doing her hair. This year, she hadn't even managed to do that much. She'd forgotten about the Ball entirely. She did a quick calculation and realized with faint horror that it was to be the following weekend. Left things a bit last-minute, didn't we, Ron? she thought, rather uncharitably; really she wished he weren't asking her in the first place. But he was, fumbling and stammering over his words. Typical Ron.

"... I was wondering if you wanted to go. With me. Because you haven't said. So... you know, I was just... wondering. Wondering if you wanted to go with me. I said that already, didn't I?" he finished miserably. His face matched the shade of his hair near-perfectly. Hermione felt a sudden wash of pity for him; she had not been terribly kind to him lately, and yet he had still mustered up the courage to ask her this. She opened her mouth to respond but then snapped it shut again immediately. Malfoy, surrounded by a small group of Slytherins, had emerged from the Potions classroom. He was smirking; with a sinking feeling, she realized that he must have heard the last bit of her conversation with Ron. Always sensitive to the impending humiliation of someone of lesser status, Malfoy had seen immediately that there was something here worth picking at. He glided over to where Ron and Hermione stood and cooed, "My my, troubles in paradise? Let me guess... the school dance?"

Hermione rolled her eyes and said, "Shut up, Malfoy," while Ron glared, the veins in his neck bulging and his face going past red and straight into purple.

Malfoy smiled indulgently and pretended to examine a bit of dirt on one of his fingernails. "Aw. Poor Granger. It must be tough when the only person who appreciates your... charms..." He glanced at her hair, and waited until the Slytherin goons behind him finished sniggering obediently before continuing, "... is Weasley here, who can't even afford decent looking school robes, much less something appropriate for the Ball. Guess you'll just have to go alone... again."

Ron's mouth was open and working with no sound coming out. Hermione reflected that she spent entirely too much of her time protecting her friends from their own testosterone. Perhaps not today, though, she thought, seized by a devilish impulse. She was tired of keeping Ron out of trouble, tired of being mocked, tired of all of House Slytherin. One Slytherin in particular, although the one standing in front of her at the moment would do nicely as a substitute.

Hermione lowered her lashes at Draco and then simpered, in her best Pansy Parkinson imitation, "Malfoy, it's so nice of you to take an interest. I understand you're having a bit of difficulty finding a date yourself this year. Are you... asking?"

Draco's demeanor changed in an instant. Now he and Ron were both staring at her with red faces, Malfoy's angry and Ron's astonished. Hermione was good at piecing together bits of information, and she'd overheard enough whispered fragments of gossip over the past few weeks to know that Lucius Malfoy was out of favor in the Dark Lord's circle, and furthermore that his son was suffering by association. Pansy Parkinson had found someone more politically favorable to attend the ball with, and so far Draco hadn't found a replacement date.

Draco's thoughts were plainly visible on his face: if even bookworm Hermione Granger knew... who else did? His initial look of dumbfounded astonishment transformed into a snarl of cold, naked fury. On any other day that would have been good enough for her, but his humiliation was too irresistible; she wanted to prod him just a bit further, make him cringe and squirm like she'd been made to in class the day before. How does it feel, Malfoy?

And so with a wide, flirtatious smile, she said, "Oh, no worries, Draco; I certainly don't have any problem with whatever your dad has been up to lately. I'm not that sort of girl. Always found Death Eaters a bit boring, to be honest."

Ron was staring in open-mouthed shock. There are quite a few things you don't know about me, Ronald Weasley, she thought.

Malfoy trembled with fury. His face was bloodless and white, with two feverish spots of color high in his cheeks. Hermione found her hand creeping towards her wand; it occurred to her with a jolt that she might have really pushed him over the edge this time.

In a cracking, high-pitched voice, Draco said, "You know nothing about my father. You know nothing about me. And by the time we're finished with you and your kind, you'll know nothing at all forever, you filthy MUDBLOOD!"

Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw Ron going for his wand. She thought, oh no, and then time seemed to slow down. She reached for her own wand, but Malfoy somehow already had his in his hand, aimed between her eyes, while Ron's wand was aimed in turn at Malfoy. Every nerve in her body screamed for her to run...but before her body could respond to the command, she heard a familiar baritone voice, and everyone froze.

"Mr. Weasley. Mr. Malfoy." A pause, and then, "Miss... Granger."

Snape. She felt an electric shiver when he spoke her name but remained perfectly still. Without otherwise moving, she opened her fingers to release her grip on her wand. Ron and Malfoy both lowered theirs, glaring at each other. She wondered what Malfoy had been about to cast on her. She had never seen him so consumed with rage.

Snape's voice came from behind her, "I believe that public dueling is expressly forbidden on school grounds. Twenty points from Gryffindor and ten from Slytherin, and then I want the lot of you back in your towers where you belong."

Ron sputtered in outrage, "But... why twenty from us?"

Dangerously quiet, Snape said, "That's ten for you and ten for Miss Granger, who as Head Girl should know better than to become involved in petty disputes of this nature."

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up; he was so close behind her that she could feel the air moving every time his robes shifted. In front of her, Ron flushed red again, but he kept his mouth shut. It was clearly unfair that Gryffindor was being docked ten additional points when Slytherin had an entire goon squad backing up Malfoy, but they expected this sort of thing from Snape. Hermione was glad to see that Ron knew better than to protest.

"On your way, all of you. No...Miss Granger, a moment, if you please." Malfoy and the Slytherins were already retreating, smirking to each other. Hermione could feel Snape looming just over her shoulder. She wondered if he knew how uncomfortable he was making her. Likely yes, and no doubt he's enjoying every second of it. With deep resentment, she considered that if Ron hadn't stopped her to ask about the damned Yule Ball, she'd have been halfway back to Gryffindor Tower by now.

Ron clearly didn't want to leave her; he stopped and gave her a questioning look. Hermione shook her head. "I'll catch up later, Ron; no worries." He hesitated, shooting a baleful glare at the dark figure standing behind her, but finally trudged off down the hallway.

Leaving Hermione alone with her Potions professor.