Chapter 8: She cried, 'More! More! More!'

Disclaimer: I'm not making any money from this. Anything you recognise is not mine, but Jo's. Sadly.

A/N: Thanks to all those who read and reviewed! And to all you others, I give in and will never sell myself out for reviews again. It put you off reviewing, I just know it! ;)

Updates and progress reports, as well as the story now can be found on my Lj under http://shalimar1981.livejournal.com

Emotional!Hermione makes a comeback in this and the next chapter, so be warned. After that she will make only sporadic and short appearances. Relax, the worst is almost over. ^.^ After that, we will start with fencing. Tee-hee.

Thanks as ever to my betas, SnarkyRoxy and Ladyinthecloak, for being the best there are and polishing off my storytelling. I'm also indebted to the Wiktt, MoITWF and Potter_Place forums and chats, for being especially encouraging and offers of chocolate. ^.^

Thanks also to my little girl, for thankfully starting to eat something besides carrot and potato mush. Yuk. It's a mystery why anyone would want to eat that. ;)

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Chapter 8: She cried, "More! More! More!"

Hermione was so wrapped up in her contemplations about the curious behaviour of her teacher when she came down the stairs that Ron, or what could be another tense meal in the company of the rest of the house's inhabitants after yesterday's debacle, didn't even enter her head.

So when she was on her way down for breakfast, absent-mindedly thinking about Professor Snape's change of attire during yesterday's meeting with a slight flush suffusing her cheeks, she was surprised to bump into Harry on her way down the stairs. He usually slept in like Ron, coming in only a few minutes before Ron to ensure there was still something edible left before his mate took a swipe at it. Ron was still growing, but watching him eat was admittedly not a sight one wanted to remember.

But the surprises didn't end there. Something seemed to have shaken up the other inhabitants of number twelve, Grimmauld Place. After her fight with Ron and the subsequent tense dinner the day before, she expected Harry to behave as he usually did when two of the three friends had a fight and step aside. Judging from his behaviour of the previous weeks and at dinner yesterday, this fight wouldn't be an exception.

So when Harry got up this early and greeted her cordially on the stairs, at first she thought he must be ill. Or at least Confunded. Then she remembered that this wasn't an option because the twins didn't live at number twelve, Grimmauld Place; the others were either too young to do magic during the holidays or adults, and adults didn't touch Harry. Ever. Even if he did stupid things, dangerous things, the most he'd get was detention or loss of House points. Though she often – all right, almost always – participated in said dangerous pastimes, she didn't agree with the lax way the three of them were treated with regard to punishment. Of course she didn't fancy being expelled for their adventures, especially since they had proved to be always necessary for one reason or another, but it wasn't okay to basically encourage them to break the rules without further consideration.

Since all those possibilities could be discounted, the only other option available was that Harry felt guilty about shunning her, had finally behaved like the man he should be by now and stood up to Ron. She looked at him warily, but joined him on the way down to the kitchen, chatting about the all purpose topic, the weather.

The impossible seemed actually to have happened; her conclusion proved to be correct.

The moment they sat down, he practically interrogated her on which spells, charms and hexes she'd practised already and volunteered as a victim. He did it so pointedly in front of the others – especially those of age like Fred and George, who'd come over in the wee hours of the morning escorting Ginny home, and Order members – complete with a raised voice, inviting them to 'volunteer' as victims as well, she could've kissed the little idiot. Not that he was so little anymore, of course.

She didn't, for Ginny was back, and Hermione had no desire whatsoever to have another strained friendship on her hands. Ron had also just come down, and she didn't want to pour oil into the already blazing fire of jealousy either. Waiting expectantly for Ron to explode, but rather with a mild, detached sort of interest in which form it would take than with true apprehension, she was surprised when the explosion she'd expected didn't come.

Instead, Ron merely grunted when both Harry's elbow and Fred's – or George's – foot connected with his ribs and shin respectively, and muttered an almost incoherent, "Good morning, 'Mio... I mean, Hermione." The mumbled nature of his words had probably more to do with the fact that his eyes were still glued together with sleep than actual remorse, but it was a start.

He quickly ate while the rest of them talked about everything and anything, mostly about what creative hexes she'd read about lately and how Transfiguration could best be used for Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes. When the twins, along with Ginny, wondered aloud how Neville and Luna were doing after the fiasco at the Ministry, they tried not to notice that neither Harry nor Hermione joined into the discussion, kept their gazes firmly affixed on the remnants of their breakfast and changed the subject. Soon after, Ron finished his breakfast and left without a word, Ginny trailing after him with an apologetic look sent her way. But Harry, true to his word, stayed behind, staring at the closed kitchen door for quite a while with a thoughtful expression on his face.

The twins, however, leapt at the chance to finally be able to interrogate her the second the kitchen door closed behind their two siblings.

"So you finally walloped him a good one?" Fred asked her, both of the twins regarding her with something akin to awe.

"Er..." she only managed while looking anxiously over to where Mrs Weasley was cleaning up the counter. Although her back was turned to them and she was busy coordinating the cleaning efforts of both the brush doing the washing up and a dish-rag cleaning the work space, Hermione could tell the older woman was listening avidly. Mrs Weasley normally didn't even need to be present for half of the Burrow to clean itself, so her continued presence was highly suspicious. Dare she tell the unmitigated truth or hush things up, once again?

Some spark from her I-don't-give-a-shit attitude from the illicit potion brewing two weeks ago was still left over apparently, for when the twins continued to pester her for details, she gave them what they wanted in only a slightly edited version of events. Namely where the Potions master came into the equation.

"Come on! Give us the juicy details! You really flipped out on him? Miss Prim Prefect?" George goaded her with an expectant grin.

She chuckled at the nickname. She'd almost forgotten that one.

"If you must know, yes I did. I hit him. More than once, in fact."

"Wicked," they said in unison, the tone both awed and laden with mischief at the same time. It was one of those words they used frequently, and the way they said it never failed to make her grin. Even at a time when she didn't really want to, like now.

"There's really not much to tell. He yelled, I yelled. He was being a tactless prat as usual, and I slapped him, three times. Then I barricaded myself in the library for a good bout of yelling and crying..."

With a muted Phlonk, her narrative was interrupted by the brush and one of the dishes dropping unceremoniously into the washing-up water in the sink. Mrs Weasley merely muttered a brief, "Sorry", then resumed her charm work, much more furiously than before.

Hermione looked worriedly at the woman's back.

Had she gone too far? Said too much? Was Mrs Weasley now angry at Hermione for telling her other children how her son had behaved?

God, she hoped not! Memories from fourth year came distinctly to mind, when after being accused of leading Harry on by the Daily Prophet, Mrs Weasley had made it only too clear that she didn't approve, never mind that it hadn't been true. She still remembered that one, tiny Easter Egg.

"...during which I apparently almost completely destroyed all the furniture in the process. But I repaired everything as soon as I noticed," she continued hastily, having made up her mind to tell all – well, almost all – and damn the consequences, but quickly enough before Mrs Weasley had a chance to interrupt. She carefully left out all mention of Snape in that scenario as if he hadn't been there at all.

"That's it, really," she answered with a worried look at Mrs Weasley, who was now scrubbing a clean pan furiously – by hand.

"Oh, how boring. No blood spilt at all? Mind you, Ron deserves it sometimes," George said eagerly with a bloodthirsty glint in his eyes.

"No," she replied cautiously, giving George a hard look.

At her look of worry, Fred replied with a carefree, inborn-of-being-a-middle-child-complete-with-his-twin-as-backup manner, "Don't worry. It's bound to have shaken things up a bit in that head of his. Not much in there, after all." George snickered.

At that point, Mrs Weasley decided to join the conversation, if only to thwack both her sons over the head.

"You two! Go out before I'll change my mind about dessert for you tonight! And try to keep out of mischief for one day, will you? Just because you're getting paid for it now doesn't mean you should corrupt those still with a proper education in mind!" With that, she hustled not only the twins but also an apologetic-looking Harry out the kitchen door, leaving Hermione to the mercy of the mother of the boy she'd slapped yesterday and had just now defamed in front of his best friend and his two brothers.

She didn't feel too good about the scolding that would inevitably follow.

At first, Mrs Weasley continued to cast a few more house-keeping charms, silently for the most part, then turned around to Hermione with an indignant expression on her face, thus confirming her theories that a) the presence of Mrs Weasley was quite unnecessary for her charm work, and b) the admonishing would ensue forthwith. Or so she thought.

But the first words out of Mrs Weasley's mouth were, "I can't believe that boy of mine!" and effectively stunned Hermione into silence, when she'd have normally tried to defend herself.

"I don't know where he got that from! Certainly not from me! And his father was never like that either! Maybe from one of his uncles? But don't you worry, dear. As much as I hate to agree with my other son, the trouble-maker, I'm sure those slaps of yours are bound to have put things into perspective for him. He'll come around, you'll see," Mrs Weasley gave vent to the immense fury apparently bottled up inside of her.

That she was really so angry – on her behalf – had Hermione blinking furiously so as not to lose control over her emotions again. Why, she defended Hermione's actions towards her own son! Why was she doing that? Although she was now a tad confused as to why the older woman had behaved like she was on Fluoxetin – more commonly known as Prozac – yesterday at dinner. But maybe a fight that should have stayed within the family, so to speak, played out in front of Order members simply hadn't appealed to her.

"He'll have to. Otherwise no girl in her right mind will have him! Sorry to be so frank, Mrs Weasley," Hermione stated with determination.

"Molly, dear. You're of age and one of us now," she replied gently, guiding Hermione to sit back down in the chair she had just vacated, while taking the seat beside her. "Oh, he will. Ron still has quite a bit of growing up to do."

"Though slapping him was not exactly mature either," Hermione admitted ruefully.

"Sometimes you're too grown up for your own good. It's good to see you behave like one closer to your age now and then. Don't mind Ron. His father was also a bit of an idiot before we got together. Although not that much of an idiot," Molly added with a frown.

Hermione swallowed nervously. There was nothing for it, she would have to tell her or the matchmaking and subsequent bullying of Ron that would ensue didn't bear thinking about.

"Er, actually, Mrs... Molly, I don't like Ron... in that way," Hermione explained worriedly.

"I know, dear. It's obvious you two wouldn't do well together. You have absolutely nothing in common. I'm glad you have enough sense to see it. Not many girls your age think twice about a teenage romance. Liking each other or finding one another attractive simply aren't good enough reasons to build a lasting relationship on. But I'm afraid Ron will need some more time to realise that. Bear with him, will you? Just a little longer? I'm sure he will get it once he's thought about it. But tell me if it's taking him too long or if it gets unbearable, and I'll set him to rights."

"Thanks, Molly. I will," Hermione replied warmly, scolding herself inwardly for being surprised at the older woman's insight and understanding. With such a big family, it really shouldn't surprise her that Molly Weasley knew everything that was going on in her vicinity.

"Good, good. Now, run along and spend some time with Harry. The poor boy has felt frightfully guilty the past two weeks with you and Ron quarrelling."

And with a last smile at Molly, Hermione left in search of Harry.

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Completely opposite to how the past three weeks had passed, the time until Wednesday flew by like a whirlwind. Of course, mostly her new routine of two runs a day of ten minutes each, some practising of moves she managed to squeeze in, and her two new books, which she had to admit were fascinating, mainly deserved the credit for that. But Harry also made a point of talking to Hermione and spending time with her over the next few days.

She could've laughed at the irony of the situation. When all of her friends had basically left her to her own devices, she admitted to have secretly wished they would at least try to approach her. And now that she finally had something to focus on, a purpose, but of which she couldn't tell anyone, they made an effort to include her!

At least they saw now what a great prat Ron could be when he put his mind to it, and that of age or not, she was still their friend, not a leper to be shunned, and that it was not necessary to choose between friends who were not talking to each other if they all tried to behave like adults.

She was grateful for this turnaround in the relationship with Harry, and though it cost her a great deal of patience and concentration, she made the same effort to approach him and the others. She managed to stay away from her two new books and practising long enough for the time she spent with them, when all she wanted was to devour them whole at the knowledge and salvation they represented for her. On the upside, it distracted her from the curious problem of why parries Seconde and Octave as well as Tierce and Sixte looked so similar to each other in the sketches in one of her new books when there was supposed to be quite a difference between them.

In those instances, wizarding books with their moving pictures and drawings were definitely vastly superior.

That day after the meeting in the attic set the routine for the following days before her first lesson on Wednesday evening.

She would get up at around half past eight, eat a light breakfast – though she now added scrambled eggs to her menu in view of her daily exercise. Then she would have one of her two daily runs in the backyard. Afterwards, she would spend some time with Harry or Ginny, either just talking or trying to practise some of the Defense Against the Dark Arts spells they had done in the D.A. Her Patronus particularly still needed some work, in her opinion, and she wanted to try her hand at transmitting messages with it, too.

They, along with the twins who came by sometimes, were more or less willing victims in her quest for perfecting her knowledge and took hexes and jinxes in stride as long as she reversed the consequences immediately. Order members still kept their distance, despite having volunteered at Harry's 'invitation' to help her practise. It was no more than she had expected. She was glad that she had someone to practise on, and the other Order members like Tonks, Moody, Remus Lupin or her teachers had undoubtedly much more important things to do than humour Harry and help her.

A delayed lunch, then some more practising would usually follow, on her own this time to try out some of the moves illustrated in her new instruction manual on fencing. Most moves and stances were easy enough to understand, like the initial position and the on-guard or en garde position. But the concept of the different parries still eluded her. How could the Quarte and the Quinte cover the same quadrant of a body's target zone, or rather the same quarter of a line of a body, and yet be supposedly different? Also, the constant parrying and riposting, not to mention the parry-riposting, confused her a little. And she had no idea whatsoever what was meant by the pronate and the supinate type of parry.

Then came always dinner, which since Harry's talk with Ron was much more bearable than the one on the day of the fight. In the three days since their meeting in the attic, she hadn't seen Professor Snape even once at Order Headquarters. Although he could've been there, she admitted to herself; that she didn't see him didn't mean he hadn't been there.

In fact, more than once she'd felt the sensation of someone watching her, but when she'd turned around to look, there had been no one visible. She dismissed it as a figment of her overactive imagination.

Usually a few hours after dinner, when her friends were busy talking in either her and Ginny's or Harry and Ron's room, she had her evening run and a shower after that.

And so it went, until Wednesday – the day of her first lesson – arrived. The day started off badly already when she woke up, dishevelled and sweaty, from a nightmare she couldn't remember, but which had left her wide-awake and shaking.

As soon as her mind was able to throw off the last vestiges of her dream-induced numbness, her nerves began to act up again.

At first, as she went through her morning routine, she couldn't for the life of her decipher the reason for her renewed case of nerves. After all, those lessons with Snape were for her to lose this infernal tension! And Professor Snape didn't seem to be as sadistic as he was at school, so there was nothing to be apprehensive about on that score either. She berated herself all through the brushing of teeth and combing of (er, wrestling with) her hair, but as the day progressed and with it her first fencing lesson with Professor Snape approached, she gained an inkling as to why she was nervous again.

He would certainly try to tackle her again for the reason of her nervous breakdown. He'd said so that evening, in fact.

And although I don't believe you're being entirely truthful about your reasons for losing control over your emotions like that, I will leave it be for now.

But it was clear that he was one of the few persons who absolutely mustn't find out!

She would be on her guard, just in case. As a spy, he would know better than anyone how to extract information which wasn't freely volunteered. But trying to think of all the questions he might ask was making her edgy, and trying to think up ways of how to circumvent those questions had her once more on the edge of hysteria.

She knew it was only a matter of the right provocation to set her off again, no matter how hard she tried to subdue her frazzled nerves. She knew it was no good, but she had to try at least. Her peace of mind was apparently still too fragile after her outburst four days ago.

She just hoped to God that whatever it would be, it would wait until after her lesson and would not have her succumb again in her teacher's presence.

Although he had been kind to her the last time and to her since then, until she knew his real motive in helping her – somehow the term 'philanthropist' and Professor Snape, Potions master didn't exactly go together – she would be wary of this 'improved' Snape, pending further evidence.

In fact, she was both right and wrong with regard to her next breakdown.

The last straw this time proved to be her evening run before she planned to go to the third room on the right in the attic for her lesson.

After a few warm-up exercises, she started to run as usual, making one circumference of the backyard after the other. Normally, she would cease thinking for those brief, blissful ten minutes twice a day.

Today was different, however. After the fifth lap, images suddenly started to flash in front of her inner eye in her agitated state.

Unconsciously, she began to run faster.

Bits and pieces, both real and imagined, of what had happened that night in the Department of Mysteries began to flit through her mind at an alarming rate. Jewel-coloured lights of hexes, horrible and eerily beautiful at the same time, striking through the air; gasps, screams and moans breaking the unnatural silence of an office building after work-hours; the stench of smoke, sweat and fear permeating the air.

Pain slicing through her chest. Pain so terrible and overwhelming, all her senses were on overload until there was nothing else - not the feeling of her blood that must've gushed from her wound down her body, for she'd seen the remnants of her clothes afterwards; not the scream that had escaped her, judging from the soreness of her throat when she awoke, and not the discomfort of hitting the floor. She'd already been unconscious before she even began to fall.

She could feel the pain right then; her wound had not entirely healed yet. The scar still prominent across her chest, pain sliced through her now along its seam.

What must've happened after she'd fallen? The arrival of the Order, the rest of her friends being hexed, the fights between Order members and Death Eaters culminating in a single moment when flesh passed cloth.

A life gone within a millisecond without a trace, soundless, painless – unaware? They'd never know.

And without a body to mourn, letting go was made that much harder.

The fight between the two most powerful wizards of the time.

One only saved by a bird of fire, representing both life and death. Another only spared by chance.

And a third holed up in a castle awaiting the verdict of what would come – a choice between certain death or a miserable existence in hiding should they have failed; or the continued threat of spying should the worst have been averted once more.

All because of a dream and a team of six reckless students.

Always over and over:

The overwhelming pain.

That instant between passing from life to death with merely a swish of cloth.

A flash of fire with a life saved.

The dead stare watching the clock.

Her speed increased until she was running, not from an enemy made of flesh, but from one settled in her mind. It was impossible to run away from those and yet she tried. Fear, pain, guilt, shame. They were ever present. They would never go away.

Her breath rushed out in shallow gasps. Her lungs started to burn. Her whole body was on fire as she willed herself to keep running. Running away from overwhelming pain, paralysing fear, immeasurable guilt and all that... Death!

More heaving than actually breathing, she staggered to her knees on the soft grass, leaning heavily on her arms, which were braced on the ground, and felt dizzy because of the lack of oxygen in her blood. Hurling herself upright, she pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes to keep the images she knew were only in her mind at bay. And failed abysmally.

She cried out her anguish silently, her whole body wracked by her sobs. Her diaphragm constricted so hard it hurt and caused her to bend over until the hands covering her face almost touched the grass beneath her.

Crying until she had no tears left and could only choke and gasp, she half-sat, half-lay on the grass, staring numbly into nothingness.

The familiar sound of a throat being cleared penetrated the thick haze she was wrapped up in. Her only coherent thought in that moment was:

Oh, no. Not again!

Why did it always have to be him? Why couldn't someone else find her for a change? Not that that scenario would be really an improvement. Just thinking about Harry or Ron finding her like this was the stuff for nightmares. No one, save Professor Snape, even knew she had a problem, and it was only a matter of time until he knew precisely what said problem was.

And now, that she had just broken beneath the pressure for the second time in his presence in under a week, she harboured no illusions to the fact that he would likely find out tonight what he wanted to know.

And then he would rescind his offer for the fencing lessons. What she was hiding was probably enough for him to do so, but she also hadn't passed the test of endurance, after all.

Why, oh, why couldn't she have stopped the images? Just for one more hour? Then they would've started with the lessons and her control over herself and these... moments would've increased, she was sure of it.

She finally looked up from her kneeling position in the wet grass to see him standing in the doorway to the house, illuminated by the light from the hallway like some sinister dark angel lacking its wings.

He wore another shabby cloak, this time in a truly filthy ochre colour. At least that's what she assumed its colour was originally. For all she knew, it could also easily have been mud brown.

Taking in her tear-stained cheeks and puffy, red eyes, he studied her like he would a curious insect or potions ingredient. One which he couldn't seem to decide whether he approved of or was disgusted with. It occurred to her then in a detached manner that she must look a real fright combined with her sweaty T-Shirt and now grass-stained training pants.

Long minutes passed, in which nothing disturbed the silence of the night, save her slowly evening breathing, and they simply stared at each other.

Then he held a hand out to her, beckoning her to come to him.

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A/N: So what do you think? Maybe some of you can already guess what Hermione is hiding. I'm curious what your guesses might be. :)

Another quote, this time from "Bram Stoker's Dracula" - the movie. And it's not one of the fanged creature's lines either (don't want to feed those vampire rumours ;)). The title of this chapter is a line from a song. Can anyone guess which one?

And the comment about Mrs Weasley acting as if on Prozac was incidentally inspired by a post on Chapter three from Potion Mistress on the OWL forum. Thanks!

Up next: The first fencing lesson and Snape finds out what Hermione has been hiding (Am I mean, leaving you hanging like that, or what? ;)).