Chapter 9: Words like Violence

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

A/N: Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed! This has been a very difficult chapter for me, and every time I saw another review alert in my mailbox, it just lifted my heart up a notch again. *hugs to all around*

I'm really sorry for the long wait, some things happened that were just totally beyond my control, but I hope this chapter is worth it. It's certainly much longer than what you're used to from me. Double the length in fact, since I didn't have the heart to cut it in half again. I hope you enjoy it.

I know I promised never to beg for reviews again, but I'm so nervous how you'll all like this chapter, I have to break my promise and beg so loud for reviews or mails or comments of any kind, you'll hear it where you live. :) Because in this chapter the fencing starts, complete with a real bout. My first fight scene and my first brush with fencing since I stopped going to practise almost three years ago. I so hope you'll like it!

First of all thanks to Riposte, who send me a very nice mail of concrit, which solved one of the trickier passages of chapter eight for me. Concrit is always welcome! I want to make this fic the best it can be, so don't be shy if there's something bothering you or you have an idea. Thanks also to Keket_Amunet for her advice about in depth description. It's my Achilles heel, and it still needs a lot of work, I'm afraid. And thanks also to Casey for a terrific analysis of the nine chapters so far. She is good, I tell you, and found out stuff that... Well, don't want to spoil anything. :D

Thanks to everyone I could ask on the topic of fencing (sadly, I couldn't make use of the picket fencing treatise Warty offered me), especially Zebee, who should write a book on fencing. She managed to raise a whole new line of subplot from the dead simply by burying me in interesting information and firing questions at me left, right and centre. I'll probably start fencing again thanks to her if my babysitter and baby will get along. Thanks sooo much!

Thanks also to everyone whom I could whine about the lack of progress on the chapter, everyone on the Wiktt and Potter_Place chats, forums and LJs. Thanks to my indomitable betas, SnarkyRoxy, Ladyinthecloak, and Dryad for managing to whip this mess of a chapter up in shape. A huge thanks to Bi, simply for telling me that I'm a better writer than some of the most popular authors in Germany, which sadly enough doesn't actually mean much, but God bless her ignorance of high-quality fanfiction, my biggest fan.

And thanks as always to my little one. This one is for being an angel on our first holiday.

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Chapter 9: Words like Violence

Keeping her eyes trained on Snape's out-stretched hand, Hermione waited. For what wasn't entirely clear, not even to her. That he would pull it back? For the admonishments at her repeated loss of control to start?

Certainly not for what actually happened next.

Nothing. He simply continued to hold his hand out to her, waiting calmly for her to grasp it.

What the hell does this mean? What is he on about? Why doesn't he scold me, berate me for losing it again? Make some derogatory remark about weepy women? Hiss or sneer at me? Why, why, why isn't he behaving like he normally would?

Coming to a resolution, she sniffed once and wiped the tears off her cheeks with the back of her left hand while she grasped his hand with her right. Again, a feeling like electric current ran through her blood at his touch. He pulled her to her feet as if she weighed nothing. He seemed to be much stronger than he looked. As soon as she stood, she noticed that her muscles were sore and stiff at the same time. Snape silently handed her a bottle of water and a towel, watching her with an unfathomable expression.

For a long moment, she stared dumbly at the items in her hands. Shivering from the light breeze blowing across her wet skin, she unwrapped the towel, roughly dried her face and neck as well as her sweat-soaked hair with the soft terry-cloth towel and laid it casually around her neck. Next, she opened the bottle of water and downed several long gulps of the refreshingly cool liquid, soothing her raw throat on its way down, then some more until the litre bottle was almost empty. She emerged from it, gasping for breath, and felt something approaching human again.

Without a word, he took the bottle from her hand and handed her a translucent vial containing a sickly green liquid.

She looked at him questioningly, but when he failed to provide her with an explanation, she did something she normally would never even remotely consider: without enquiring further, she just shrugged, opened the vial and downed it in one long swallow. It tasted as abominable as one expected potions to taste and left a weird, algae-like aftertaste in her mouth. She opened the water bottle again, downing the remains in hopes of clearing out the odd flavour, not really succeeding.

His eyebrow quirked upward, and his face had taken on an even more curious expression of surprised disbelief. She shrugged again. She could be reckless, just like the others, from time to time. Besides, there were too many people who would miss her should she fail to appear at breakfast the next morning, so he definitely wouldn't dare poison her. Everyone who knew Mrs Weasley would never touch anyone in her charge, unless they had a death wish.

Only seconds later, she felt the painful soreness and stiffness of her muscles subside, leaving her pleasantly relaxed.

How had he known to get her a muscle relaxing potion in advance? Had he really seen this coming?

Of course he did. He's probably counted on it, making his job to interrogate me all the easier, she thought bitterly, all thoughts of resisting the questioning that would come vanished. She felt too numb emotionally right now to care much anymore.

Let him ask, and let's see how he likes the answers!

But he didn't. He merely studied her face for a long minute, then nodded infinitesimally. He stepped aside so he didn't block the entrance to the house anymore and motioned for her to precede him inside.

Bewildered, she did as he apparently expected of her and stepped into the house quietly so as not to disturb Mrs Black's painting. Having that old harpy start her usual diatribe and have the whole house come down on them was the last thing she needed right now.

Snape silently closed the door to the backyard behind them as she started to climb the stairs. Just moments later, he was back right behind her. Automatically climbing one step after the other and just as slowly, her brain began to respond to the soothing motions, and she reflected what the hell she was going to do now. If jogging in the backyard set her off, what was still safe? And what was Snape thinking, wanting to teach her anything, let alone fencing?

She had never been good at anything even remotely physical. She couldn't even ride a broom properly, which was a source of endless amusement to Ron of course. What had she been thinking, trying her hand at sports? And what was going through Snape's head, thinking she could master a sport as complicated and strenuous as fencing?

If she could hold herself together long enough to try.

All too soon, the climb up the stairs into the attic was over, and she stepped aside to let him pass. This time, he could demonstrate how one got the elusive Third Door on the Right to appear. Without swearing.

He glided over to the part of the blank stretch of wall on which the door had appeared after her extensive attempts, lifted his wand and said in a commanding voice, "Open."

That was it. The door appeared just where it was supposed to and opened conveniently. It would have to be an easy solution like that. It bloody figured.

Once more he stepped aside to let her precede him into the room. She did so, but not without grumbling under her breath. Something sounding remarkably like 'show-off' and 'acting like the gentleman when it was convenient for him'.

If he heard, he certainly didn't react to her ramblings.

Just like the last time, the room was separated into two parts: the training area, which she now noticed had mirrors on the walls opposite those huge windows and which had that long grey mat lying on the floor; and the comfy part, complete with the cozy sitting group. This time, the couch table was empty though.

Pity. Could really use some tea and one of Professor McGonagall's heavenly scones right now.

The door closed behind them with a dull thud and brought her unfocused attention back to the matter at hand. Expectantly, she turned around to her teacher. She was curious how these lessons would be compared to Potions classes with him. Aside from her, there was no one to observe his behaviour and endanger his position as a spy, so it logically followed he could behave and teach the way he wanted without having to fear exposure.

He'd already shrugged out of his shabby cloak and hung it on a conveniently placed coat stand by the door. To her surprise, he still wore his usual black waistcoat and trousers. Didn't he need to change into one of these fancy white fencing suits? Or was that just for her?

She looked around and couldn't see anything out of place. So unless he planned to transfigure something or conjure the clothes out of thin air – which was devilishly difficult – they couldn't start with the lesson, could they? Of course, she didn't know anything about proper fencing lessons, so it could be that they only covered theory or some practise exercises at the beginning, for which protective clothing wasn't necessary.

When she looked back at her teacher, she found him staring at her speculatively. But not the favourable kind she had almost become used to during the past few encounters with him, but a nasty kind. The kind she'd always abhorred and which made her feel utterly worthless.

He looked at her as if deciding if she was really worth the effort and if he wasn't better off at home sitting in a comfortable armchair with an interesting book and a good glass of wine.

Immediately she felt eleven again, when all those wizards from the Ministry had come to her home after the latest incident involving a spurt of latent magic. It was the same look of disgust her aunt had given her then. As if she disgusted him.

She stiffened and looked away.

After what seemed like an eternity, he finally moved. Lifting his arm, he motioned her closer to the long grey mat in the center of the room.

Audibly sighing in relief, she followed his lead and walked closer to the mat, studying it with interest. What had so confused her during her first sojourn into this room had to be the piste, the length of a mat on the floor on which one fenced. As she studied it more closely, she noticed now several lines crossing the width of the piste. One across the centre of the piste, which was the centre line; two on guard lines, about two metres away from the centre line on each side, and two warning lines, about five metres away from the centre line on each side, which marked for the fencer the point of where there was only about two metres' worth of the mat left on each end, providing running out space.

When she turned away from her study of the mat on the floor and back to her teacher, it was again to find him staring at her. Not disdainful of her very existence this time, but what was hidden in that gaze she could not tell.

"So, in the past few days, what have you learned?" he spoke for the first time that evening. His voice was cold and haughty as she knew it from Potions class. Her heart sank. Was this to be no different?

Or was this another game? Had she really blown her chance to be respected and not disdained by him? Had his being nice to her really only been an act like she'd assumed? Or had he only pretended in the past weeks? What was pretense and what was real about him anyway? Or perhaps there was nothing real about him anymore?

She was thoroughly confused again, and in her still emotionally unstable state of mind (and that's what it was, no matter how numb she felt), she couldn't find the energy to focus on this extremely difficult puzzle that was her teacher. Only facts were able to stabilise her enough to stay in his presence. Facts like the exact measurements of the piste, or how many parries and attacks she'd learned there were. She always took comfort in cold hard facts more than anything else, save books of course. And since they always helped, she indulged in them now. He'd finally asked her a question, and she would answer, probably in more detail than he'd care for.

"This is the piste, sir. It is a total of fourteen metres long and three and a half metres wide. The lines across the piste are known as the centre, on guard and warning lines."

At that point she stopped, chancing a look at him. He was still staring intently at her in that cool manner. The only difference to his usual teaching approach was that he not once interrupted and insulted her. A slight improvement at least.

Still staring at her, he motioned for her to continue with a wave of his hand. To say she was surprised he let her flaunt her knowledge for once would be an understatement. Normally, she would've been very suspicious of this wholly uncharacteristic behaviour, but right then she didn't much care why he indulged her. The fact that he did was enough for her. And the lure to impart her knowledge was too powerful for her to resist.

"Fencers position themselves at the start of a bout on the on guard line. The warning line is, as the name states, there as a warning for a fencer so they know they have only two metres of the piste left. To cross the end of the piste is punished with a hit."

"Thank you, Miss Granger. I'm relieved that you seem to know what you will be standing on during a fencing bout. On to the actual fencing now, if you please."

She flushed, both from embarrassment and anger.

Bastard. That expletive might be getting old, but it was still accurate.

"To start with the initial position, from which all consecutive stances are derived..."

"Don't tell me, show me."

She looked at him apprehensively.

"Talking about it won't show me you know how it is done. Demonstrate, please."

Grinding her teeth, she did as asked, but only because he hadn't demanded it, despite his tone. Of course, the fact she had otherwise no idea what to do with herself might have been a major point for making that decision.

She moved over to the piste and, standing completely straight, positioned herself on the on guard line with her left foot resting directly on the line and with her right foot in a ninety degree angle to it, her heels touching.

"The initial position is basically standing straight with the one important difference how the feet are positioned. They are positioned in a ninety degree angle to each other, with the heels touching."

She looked over at him to see if he approved. He gave a sharp nod. She was relieved in a way, though it was admittedly hard to do the initial position wrong.

Now it was on to the real test.

The en garde position wasn't exactly complicated either – compared to some of the parries or attacks she'd seen in the sketches of her book – but since it was the starting position for every attack or defense action, exact alignment of the body in this position was crucial or every consecutive action would be ineffective.

"The en garde position starts off the same way," she explained. "The fencer takes a large step forwards with his front foot, then rests his weight on both of his knees, so that his balance is centered. He lifts his right arm or sword arm in front of him and his left arm or free arm behind his back, and both are bent at the elbow though not to the same degree. The free arm is rather more curled in on itself than only bent like the sword arm."

Lifting her right foot, she took a large step forwards while her left remained on the en garde line. Next she lifted both of her arms, raising her right up in front of her, her arm bent in the crook of her elbow. Her left arm was raised to the same height, but rather than simply bent at the elbow, it was curled in on itself in a graceful arch behind her back. This she thought must be the en garde position, or rather what the drawings had led her to believe was the en garde position. In reality, the step she'd taken was still too small, having her put her balance slightly on her front foot. Her torso was turned too much toward her opponent presenting her whole left side as an easy target, and she wasn't resting deep enough in her knees.

But Hermione didn't realize this when she settled into the position and looked at Snape expectantly. Not everything could be learned from books, however, although she had certainly tried to do so in the past and would thus have steadfastly denied this. But a drawing simply couldn't replace a teacher in that respect.

That was one lesson she had yet to learn.

"No," he simply said. "Why are you not doing what you are talking about so eloquently?"

"Sir?"

When she looked at him quizzically, genuinely puzzled as to what she could be doing wrong, he elaborated, "I can't see that anything in the books I gave you really penetrated that thick head of yours. I wonder what you must have done all this time since our last meeting? You certainly can't have been practising. You're doing it completely wrong. It looks ridiculous, and you would be dead within a minute."

She jumped, startled at his venom and very uneasy he took this so seriously. It was only a sport, right? No one ever was killed during a fencing match. At least she thought so. Her book had not covered competitions at all, save for the rules. And she still had no idea what she was doing wrong. The figure in the sketch had looked exactly the same when she'd looked into a mirror to check.

With an impatient sigh, he approached her and firmly rectified her stance, explaining all the while.

"Your feet are still too close together, impairing your balance. Take another smaller step forwards. No.... N...Yes, that's it. Now do it again – correctly this time – from the initial position to the en garde position."

She got it right on the fifth try. And didn't miss it again in the subsequent ten further tries he insisted on.

But that wasn't all he had to criticise.

"You're also not resting deep enough in your knees, and your balance is not centered yet. Bend your knees some more and both to the same level. No, deeper. Deeper. Yes, exactly."

She only barely suppressed a groan. She was now resting very deeply in the knees, almost crouching. A minute and already her muscles were protesting vigorously. Again. She would be very sore the next morning.

And all that only covered footwork and balance. Her torso was still turned too much inside, toward her opponent, when it should have been as parallel to her feet as possible so that it was guarded.

The only thing she was doing correctly was the way she held her arms, which didn't say much about her ability at all.

Not to mention the thunderstorm of swirling emotions that was going on inside of her.

She froze when he started to touch her.

His hands gripped her waist firmly from where he was standing behind her and adjusted her posture. Tugging a little here, twisting a little there until he was satisfied her posture was correct now.

It wasn't an especially intimate touch. She could remember various instances with Viktor where he'd been far more daring than this simple, innocent touch. Even Harry and Ron had touched her like this and more, and it had not brought forth this kind of reaction.

She was disturbingly aware of him and his every move: the rustle of his waistcoat; his breath ruffling strands of her hair when he leaned in; the strange combination of soap, sandalwood and a scent uniquely his own assailed her senses and made her weak in the knees (fortunately for her it was useful in fencing); his smooth, deep voice washing over and holding her in thrall; and the pressure of his fingers as they moved against her cloth-covered skin.

She was flustered and breathing uneasily, her eyes half-closed.

There, one of his fingers moved as he explained and slipped from the t-shirt covering her waist onto the sliver of bare flesh peeking out between her shirt and her training pants.

The heat spiraling through her had her close her eyes, and a strangled noise was stuck in the back of her throat, wanting to escape. She didn't let it.

What the hell was going on? A crush was supposed to be fun, to keep one warm at night and not to have to feel too pathetic at having no one even to dream over. But this... She remembered her crush on Lockhart – as much as she didn't want to – and that had been completely different. She had been only thirteen at the time of course, but nevertheless. She was tingly and uncomfortable and all fluttery inside. This couldn't be right.

Couldn't she even crush on someone properly without having to look it up?!

He continued to correct her posture to his heart's content and then removed his hands from her person.

Although he was still in the room, the feeling of loneliness – of something inherently, vitally important missing – was staggering.

Not enough so for her to lose her balance, however; then he'd have had to touch her again. Pity. Or she could've fallen on her arse. Probably better this way then.

But it brought her back to the matter at hand. Fencing, en garde position. Right.

Ok. So what now?

"Now show me the lunge."

Now she was getting really nervous.

The lunge was the first attack a student learned. It was both very simple and not simple at once, for its execution seemed to be an art in itself. Like the en garde position, if executed wrong or rather sloppily, death was a sure consequence if one wasn't fast enough to flee.

She took a large step forwards, which was too large in fact, overbalancing and swaying a little, and rested low on her front leg, her weapon arm outstretched.

It didn't come as a surprise to her when he said, "What are you doing now? Is that supposed to be the lunge? You're overbalancing because the distance between your feet is too large. How will you ever get up from down there? Also you need to keep your left foot precisely in a ninety degree angle and on the floor, not to mention that you completely forgot that your free arm has to be extended as well."

Snape came over to her again and made her do it again until she had it right, his touch confusing her so much it took even longer than it normally would've taken her.

But again he wasn't quite finished. "Now that you know how you have to stand for the lunge so as not to be killed instantly, you need to know that there is such a thing as Right of Way in foil fencing, regulating who has the right to attack, which I'm sure you must've noticed, even reading over the unexciting passages," he commented with a sneer. "In foil fencing you need to observe the Right of Way, or even if you scored a hit, it would be worthless. For that you need to extend your weapon arm in a line of attack before actually falling into the lunge. Got it?"

She bit the inside of her cheek so as not to demonstrate how she got it on her teacher and nodded mutely.

Then he had her demonstrate that she really got it. He was satisfied with her performance after the tenth try. She was gritting her teeth by then, and her muscles were as sore as if she didn't have a muscle relaxing potion earlier.

What more would he make her do?

"Mm, that will do; for now. Parries now, if you please."

Oh, dear.

"Um, sir? I didn't really..."

"What? Do you mean to tell me that books are not in every way superior?" he asked with pure condescension and raised a brow arrogantly.

That... That infuriating man! she thought, flushing harder. Of all the people in the world, or at least at school, why did she have to fancy him? That line of thought was old, however, and not very productive, so she let it go as she always did.

With a stubborn toss of her head, she sank once again into the en garde position and proceeded to demonstrate the eight parries she knew – at least as far as she had understood them herself. He corrected every parry she did, his touch overwhelming her just as it had done earlier and making it hard for her to concentrate on what he was telling her all the while.

Finally he stepped away from her, that part apparently finished. But what he said next made her panic from earlier seem like nothing indeed.

"While this was by no means perfect, it was nevertheless proof that you haven't lost your knack for memorising your textbooks. Now we will see if you can use what you have learned."

"Pardon?" She must've misunderstood. He didn't just say what she thought he had said.

"You understand me, get over to the other side of the piste. Now we will fight."

"But, sir! I don't know how to fight! I know nothing of how to attack or how to defend myself!"

"You know enough. You know the parries to defend yourself, and you cannot tell me you didn't understand the diagrams with regard to attacks. Now, use them!"

"But surely not as we are? We will have protective clothing, right?"

"I know enough about fencing to restrain myself from dealing you a fatal blow. For minor scrapes there are Healing charms. And if, as you say, you have no idea of attacking then it is most unlikely you will achieve a hit. Now get on with it!"

"You're insane! You cannot mean to go through with this with sharp foils, without masks, without protective clothing?!"

"You know my teaching methods: either you do as I tell you or there's the door. Choose. I don't have all day."

Of course she would stay. No matter how insane this was, he was her only hope. She was desperate now. Perhaps a match like this had some undefinable purpose and she just couldn't see its advantage at the moment. In any case, she would stay.

Shaking like a leaf, which was probably the worst condition to be in for a fight, she made her way over to the piste, positioning herself on the en garde line in the same position opposite Professor Snape.

Then she noticed several things simultaneously: that she had her wand in her hand instead of a foil and that he was standing on the on guard line on his side, but he was still standing straight as a board in the initial position, glaring at her furiously.

She straightened hastily back into the initial position when she remembered what started a bout: the salute.

"Sorry," she muttered. Now she'd probably offended him. Great. That didn't bode well for their bout at all.

Just as she was wondering how she could do the salute, not to mention fence without a foil, her wand – which was still in her sword hand – elongated, firmed and transformed into the sleek, gleaming metal of a training foil, complete with blade, coquille or guard, grip and pommel.

She smiled sheepishly as she thanked him, then fell into the initial position once more. She raised the blade until it was almost touching her face, staring at Snape in salute, then lowered it, raised and lowered it again in a sharp flourish.

With a sharp nod, he followed likewise, though his salute involved a slight loop before he lowered his blade a second time in the same sharp flourish as she had done. It was almost imperceptible, but noticeable if one paid attention. So he had his own salute. Interesting.

He hadn't criticised her on her salute, so she could assume it was one of the few things she had done correctly today. Oh, joy. It was at least something, she supposed.

"En garde."

She came suddenly back to the here and now when Snape fell into the en garde position opposite her, gracefully and without seeming to mind the strain on his thigh muscles at all. Immediately her apprehension and fear were back, and as she lowered herself into the en garde position as well, she saw her blade was trembling. Not good. Not good at all.

Snape stared at her intently for a moment, assessing her posture. Apparently satisfied for the moment, which she found ridiculous since if she didn't do this correctly now, it could be one of her last moments, he asked, "Ready?"

She felt like laughing hysterically, but nodded. She wished he would start already, the tension was becoming unbearable, and already she could feel sweat breaking out all over her body.

"Allez!"

For a long moment, neither of them moved, held back by the mounting tension in their bodies. Then all of a sudden everything happened very quickly.

He moved first, a step forward and a slight adjustment of the foil in his hand, blocking any attempt of an attack she might have made. She shrank back from him with a clumsy step, again overbalancing on her front leg, and whilst making sure she would not stumble, she was unprepared for his attack when it finally came.

Her brain supplied her with the correct name for the attack and the correct name for the most likely parry to that one, only didn't as helpfully remember what it looked like and how the devil she was supposed to do it from only reading that bloody book! So she blocked it as best as she could: she whacked his foil away as if they were both using swords instead. It reminded her very inappropriately of batting at a nasty and insistent fly.

And he continued in this vein, attacking with merely a lunge forward as if he didn't need to use another attack, as if she wasn't good enough for him to be bothered like this and forcing her to whack his foil away and to retreat.

Finally she noticed she was already behind the warning line, reminding her that she was about to stumble against the wall and lose consequently. Well, she was about to lose anyway, so she would try to at least once to attack him.

That next time he lunged forward, and she prepared to lunge as well, she overbalanced on her front foot and stumbled, and then something happened she hadn't read about in her book, or had been taught anywhere. She did it instinctively to defend herself because she saw his foil coming closer than it had come before – dangerously close.

As she stumbled she braced herself on the ground with her free arm, crouched low, brought her head close to her breast bone with her chin touching her t-shirt-covered chest in an attempt to get her head out of the way of his sharp foil, raised her out-stretched sword arm and lunged. It was the first – and only – thing that came to her mind on how to defend herself. Due to the fact that he had just prepared a lunge, he hadn't protected the left side of his torso as he should have, and with her instinctive maneuver, in an attempt to parry his attack her foil whirled just past his own, she managed to scrape him on his free arm, the blade of her foil slicing through the cloth of his waistcoat, his shirt underneath and through his skin, drawing blood.

They were both stunned at what had happened, he because he had not had time to react to her stumble and subsequent defence, which was in fact the passatta sotto attack, though crudely executed; and she because in her attempt to defend herself, she had unintentionally managed to achieve a hit.

Then she saw blood peeking through the gap in his clothes, seeping from a narrow gash into the dark cloth of his clothes, staining his white shirt underneath a deep red.

Staring at that sliver of white, drenched in red, she stood up dizzily, belatedly realizing that she was breathing so fast she was close to hyperventilating. Shaking from head to toe, she finally wrenched her gaze free from his wound.

I hurt him. I could've killed him! I'm no better than... I have... just like...

The last hold she'd had on her fragile control snapped. With a heart-wrenching sob she threw her foil – or rather her transfigured wand – to the ground, turned around and ran so fast as if all the hounds of hell were behind her. And in a way they were. For her at least.

He ran after her as quickly, having expected this development, and caught her just as she made to open the door. He barrelled into her, kicking the door shut with the force of both their bodies' impact. He grabbed her arm, wrenched her around in a vice-like grip and slammed her against the wall beside the door, roughly holding her arms against it to each side of her head, and immobilizing her with his body pressing her against the wall.

"Oh, no. You won't run this time!" he rasped in her ear, looking down on her from his position above her.

She gasped and looked at him in horror, not really seeing him but Dolohov and the other Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries, and frantically struggling against his hold on her.

"Let me go, you piece of filth!"

"It's me, Severus Snape. I'm neither Dolohov, Malfoy, Jugson or Rookwood. Not Avery, Nott or Mulciber. Not one of the Lestranges, and not Crabbe or Macnair. I am Severus Snape, your teacher, and we are here at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, you are safe," he continued talking to her as if she were a shying horse, to make her come back to herself. The tension in her body subsided slightly and her struggling ceased. When he saw her begin to register where she was and who he was, he took advantage of the fact that her inner defenses were still down and asked her forcefully, "You spoke of making amends to Weasley the other day. You didn't mean just being allowed to do magic, did you?"

At her agonized expression he knew he'd struck gold. Now to get her to tell him.

She shook her head to stave him off, although deep down she knew it wouldn't work on him and that it was too late anyway. This time, she couldn't hold it back anymore. This time there would be no escape.

Tears began to pour down her cheeks before she even realised. Tears worked all right with Harry and Ron, but Snape had to be immune to them since he didn't show the slightest reaction to hers.

She shook her head again as if willing herself to forget, to make it all undone.

"Dammit! Don't shut yourself away! Do you think that helps? Would you feel like this, behave like this, if it did after all these weeks? Just stop and spit it out, you stupid girl!"

"You're right! I am a stupid little girl! If I wasn't, none of this would've happened!"

"None of what wouldn't have happened?"

"It's my fault!"

"What's your fault?" And that last question was the final straw and had her story gushing out of her like a waterfall.

"It's my fault! I'm the responsible one. I'm the brain. I'm the one who plans ahead, who gets the others out of trouble. They always depend on me. Whenever they are going to do something stupid it falls to me to keep them from getting killed. I knew what Harry wanted to do from the beginning. I should have come up with a better plan. A better plan than six children barging into the Ministry without backup intent on saving a grown man from Death Eaters! I could only think of getting Umbridge out of the way. It didn't even occur to me to get someone for you. I just remember thinking "Stay with Harry. Stay with him or he'll do something stupid." Over and over. All of us were hexed and cursed. Sirius... is dead. Harry and Dumbledore could've been killed as well! Your cover could've blown! And because of what? A stupid little girl couldn't even turn her brain on long enough to think!

"I'm supposed to be reasonable, to think things through from the beginning, yet I went along with that half-cocked plan and didn't even think about alerting you – the last Order member at Hogwarts – until Harry yelled at you in the Headmaster's office! Me! The supposed 'brightest witch of her age'! Hah! I should've put a stop to it! Why didn't I just Stupefy Harry or at least try to convince him further? Tried to come up with a better plan? No, all I could come up with was that stupid plan how to get into the Headmaster's office to contact Headquarters which almost blew everything!" she yelled at him or rather at herself. She'd stopped noticing he was pressing her against the wall when she'd started her tirade. Now that she was finished, she sagged in on herself, held up only by his arms. His grip had slackened as soon as she had stopped struggling.

"It's all my fault."

"Your fault," he repeated flatly, and she was reminded of a parrot. It almost made her smile.

"Well, not only. I'm not as arrogant as that. But I could've prevented all of it. Somehow," she insisted, tears still flowing freely. She didn't even notice when the pressure on her arms and the rest of her body vanished as he put some distance between them.

"Well, I'm glad to hear that at least one of the infamous Trio is finally ready to accept responsibility for her actions."

"Then you... believe it, too?" she asked, afraid to have misunderstood, afraid to have not. She looked strangely torn between a combination of relief and despair at his admission.

"That's what you wanted to hear, wasn't it? No false reassurances, no pretense. Well, there I give you the honest truth. You are right. You bear some responsibility for what happened at the Ministry. But so do a lot of people, among them the Headmaster, almost all Order members, myself of course and even Potter and Weasley. All of our actions from that night and from the months before led directly to it. We are all guilty, some more than others. Everything we do or don't do affects the world we live in. It is very easy to claim we have no responsibility for the consequences of our actions, if we don't draw the dagger ourselves to kill someone. And yet in the end we are responsible.

"In the end those who face up to these consequences and their part in them will be richer in experience. A painful one occasionally like this one, but eventually, you will be the one to profit from these experiences and will be able to grow beyond yourself. The others will be stuck in the effort to deny their part in unpleasant things and waste energy and stay the way they are: little, pisen, and small minded. You can still become the 'brightest witch of her age' as long as you face up to what is inevitable: that everything we do affects our environment; actions have consequences, for which we are responsible, no matter how little we might like it."

"But what am I supposed to do now? This guilt is tearing me apart and eating me up from the inside! I can't sleep. I can barely eat. I can't think! How do you cope?" she asked, the desperation creeping back into her voice and, without realising it, began to tear at her shirt.

"What makes you ask that? There is nothing for me to cope with."

"Liar!" she countered immediately, although how she could tell, she had no idea. She just... knew. It was the same with the observations that followed her exclamation. "I can sense it. I can feel the guilt eating you up from the inside! Just like it does me, only worse." Her eyes widened as she realized. She stumbled towards him until they were only a few feet apart.

"You've killed! Tell me what to do to lessen this agony and I will! Please, please help me," she begged, closing the distance between them and raising her arms towards him, her fingers curled around the cloth of his waistcoat covering his arms and hanging onto him for dear life.

With an incensed glare, he took hold of her hands, roughly pried them from his clothes and shoved her violently away from him.

"How dare you! No student will question me like this. You forget your place, Miss Granger."

"My place? And where exactly might that place be? To you I'm your student; to the other teachers I'm someone else's student and not their responsibility; to the students I'm an adult – one of you – but in reality my place is among neither. And since I am neither there is no place for me to forget. So I can question you to my heart's content!" she all but screeched at him in a shrill voice.

"That may be right. Receiving answers to your questions is another matter entirely, however," he replied coldly, then asked, looking at her speculatively, "... What did you mean by felt it?"

"I don't know. I could sense it as I spoke."

"I see," he said, giving her a strange look.

"Please. I'm not whole anymore. I don't know what to do anymore. Nothing helps. Please, I know you can help me. I will do anything! I just... I can't stand it anymore."

With a sudden cold fury in his eyes, he stared at her for a long time until he spoke suddenly, brusquely and very quietly; almost against his will.

"Do you accept responsibility for the consequences of your actions?" he asked her in a strangely stiff and very formal manner. It had an almost ritualistic quality to it to her ears.

"I do," the answer burst forth before she even thought it, as if it had a will of its own.

"Will you face the consequences as they are brought before you?"

"I will."

"Without exception?"

"Without exception," she agreed, and though she had no idea what exactly she had just agreed to, it had felt right. So indescribably right.

Snape gave a choked sort of noise, but when she looked at him, he seemed as composed as ever.

"So be it," he said quietly, and somehow she felt the weight on her shoulders that had pressed down on her ever more in the past few weeks lessen.

Her mind cleared in a way she seldom experienced anymore, and she wondered what had just happened.

Had he really invoked some sort of ritual to help her?

In hindsight, his questions and the way he'd asked them sounded very much like a ritual, although it had seemed perfectly normal to her at the time.

Three pleas and three questions which had received three positive answers. Three times three.

Three was a number with very powerful magical properties and was used very often in rituals of vows, bonds and magical promises, that much she knew. Whatever ritual it was, it was now set in motion. There was nothing she could do about it now, even had she wanted to, but accept and wait what would happen.

She didn't know what was going on with her, but she wanted it to stop. A feeling of being torn from limb to limb, only not physically – that description did and didn't make sense at the same time – was her constant companion since the skirmish in the Department of Mysteries. Only it seemed to be getting worse with each passing day.

She had tried to ignore it, had tried to keep busy, but that hadn't been as easy as one would think. Her every attempt had been thwarted.

She was prepared to do anything to make this feeling stop. So she could finally feel normal again. She was afraid if it didn't stop soon, she would go mad. That was one of her greatest fears. To be aware of the outside world but not being able to interact with it properly, to communicate with it, and to use the brain she was so famous for.

Lost in her contemplation, she studied the floor absent-mindedly. She turned her attention back to the man in front of her.

She gasped, then frowned in confusion.

For a moment there, she could've sworn he had looked at her with a mixture of compassion and concern, but after a second it was gone, replaced by his usual impenetrable mask of indifference.

Just when she tried to dare to ask him about it, he asked her in a confusingly nonchalant manner, "Now what was so hard about telling someone of your feelings on the matter?"

"You must be joking! What was not hard about telling you all of this?!"

"I fail to see your point. Are 'friends' not for confiding in? I don't have a lot of experience with the dubious concept of friendship but isn't trust a fundamental component – a necessary requirement?"

She flushed bright red with fury.

"First of all, until recently you've only ever been a complete bastard to me and my friends, so why should I tell you of all people anything? And my 'friends' of whom you speak with so much derision, have enough on their plates right now without my problems to add to them. Harry's just lost another person close to him. I didn't want to burden him. And do I really have to outline why I wouldn't confide in Ron?! The subject of Ron is self-explanatory, I think, and the others..." she exhaled raggedly, "I just couldn't."

"Ah, I see. You didn't want them to placate you, but you didn't want them to be honest with you either."

She gaped at him.

"How dare you judge others so harshly and never let others criticise you, you hypocrite!"

He wasn't rattled by her outburst in any way, which only infuriated her more. It wasn't that she wanted him to be angry, but this simply wasn't normal behaviour. He was holding himself back, manipulating her again. If only he wasn't so damnably considerate and understanding.

He merely replied calmly, "It is correct that I don't let myself be criticised by or in front of students. To allow that would ruin my authority. How dare you presume to judge me with the meager information you have? Your speculations about me are not proof, and you don't know me in any way other than in my capacity as your teacher. You have no idea what I might let others do. Kindly remember that in the future."

Throughout this admonishment he kept his calm, which made her anger and humiliation all the worse.

"However that is not the point right now. It is all right to feel conflicted. Not every problem has a perfect solution. That you feel unsure of what you want to hear shows that you are only human. No one likes to be hurt voluntarily and consciously. However, that you are not simply denying the truth about your guilt with regard to Black's demise shows that you also have a strong sense of responsibility and that you indeed use the head on your shoulders; compared to some others I could name."

She couldn't seem to get her mouth closed, she was so astonished.

"Why are you being so nice to me? What is it you really want? Can't you stop being manipulative for even one minute and try to get what you want simply by asking for it? Do you even know who you really are anymore underneath all those roles you play?" she demanded hotly.

Caught off guard, his quiet, "No," slipped out before he could stop it. Shocked as he was at his slip, he was nevertheless pleasantly surprised that she continued to be perceptive even when she was distraught.

So it had already worked. Good. That could work to all of their advantage.

"I see. Of course I can 'cut the bullshit', so to speak, and behave like your mean professor if that makes you more comfortable," he sneered at her.

"You just don't get it, do you? There's no need to pretend. There's no one here to betray you!"

"Oh, but there is, Miss Granger."

She recoiled as if he had just hit her.

She would never voluntarily betray him! How could he think she would put another life in danger, especially after what happened to Sirius? Why would he...

These thoughts chased each other until they stopped abruptly when her brain engaged.

He hadn't mentioned who it was who could betray him. There were two people in the room right now. In her self-bashing mood she'd automatically assumed he meant her. But all things considered, it could also be that he meant himself. Occlumency. Of course.

God, what a life must that be like? Unable to trust anyone, to let anyone close for fear he might slip up one day? To trust only his instincts and never his emotions? To be all alone all the time?

Her fury abated as she contemplated his life and suddenly she felt very weary.

"I'm sorry. I understand. I hadn't considered... This must be a very difficult situation for you."

And she'd surprised him again. She definitely had potential. But how to get her to develop it further without her knowledge until he knew for certain she was suitable?

A curious problem that would need further thinking on.

"I just wished you could just once say honestly what you want. Who knows? I just might surprise you."

He just barely suppressed a snort. She already had – in more ways than one. Not that he could tell her that. Like so many things it was safer she didn't know about it.

"I don't like to be manipulated."

"Then you should be more exacting with the company you keep, Miss Granger. Besides, it worked, didn't it?"

While the first comment almost had her laugh out loud, a slight frown was marring her forehead at the second. Nevertheless she nodded slowly in agreement.

"This evening was a lesson for you; not the lesson I had planned to give you, but a valuable one indeed. I hope you will linger on it and reflect what you have learned tonight, both about yourself as well as fencing.

"It is not wise to have secrets which are harmful to your well-being. Humans need other people. We are not a solitary kind. And sometimes it is better to confide in someone, even if they are not our first choice. It makes life easier.

"As for fencing. Aside from the corrections I made to your posture in each position, I need you to know that this was not a real lesson. At least not the way I have them in mind. This time here tonight served the purpose of drawing the secret that was eating you up from the inside out of your shell. We will never bout again until you are ready. That is usually not until about half a year to a year into the lessons.

"So rest assured I won't abuse my power in this subject like this again. It was a necessary evil, I'm afraid, Miss Granger. Since this was not a real lesson, and there will possibly not be a lesson on Friday, we will meet here again at the same time tomorrow night. In that lesson I will teach you about your protective garb, some exercises for footwork and parries and possibly some of the attacks. But that depends on your progress alone, Miss Granger.

"Now on to another matter," he said cryptically, snapped his fingers, and a small glass jar filled with a white cream appeared in his palm.

"Apply this every hour to the affected area. It will heal – slowly – but it will. And you will do it, or I will do it for you," he told her ominously, and for a moment, she didn't know what he meant. Then she paled and blushed at the same time, which was quite a feat to be sure. She chanced a look at the front of her shirt, and sure enough, there were traces of blood spattered on the grey fabric. She grabbed it with both her hands and tried to hold it off her body, self-consciously trying not to look at him when she snatched the jar from his hand.

"Now I will bid you good night."

She was slightly stumped that he was basically throwing her out without an explanation and still somewhat dazed by the events of the evening when she noticed the split cloth of his waistcoat at his left shoulder. The wound that had turned everything upside-down for her.

"What about your wound, sir?" she asked very quietly.

He started and looked down at his upper left arm, where his clothing was cut.

"Oh, that. Look what magic is good for, Miss Granger," he said cryptically and said very clearly, "Finite Incantatem."

A change of atmosphere rippled through the air, leaving her breathless with the loss of... something that had been there a moment ago and had apparently been there the whole time she'd spent in this room tonight. She watched his form intently to see what this was all about and saw quite clearly the blood and the wound it originated from disappear, leaving only the ripped clothing behind as the sole proof she had wounded him in the first place.

"See? Nothing happened; you didn't hurt me. I'm fine," he explained in a strangely reassuring manner, transfigured his foil back into his wand along with hers that was still lying on the floor a few feet away from her, and continued, tapping his wand once on his ripped clothes, "Now the only thing that remains, is Reparo," and the rip mended itself smoothly. An instant later he looked as immaculate as ever.

"Professor, how..."

"Ah, ah, I can't reveal all my secrets at once. Rest assured it is a form of protection, for just this contingency. Now go to bed, Miss Granger."

She looked at him for a long moment, wondering if there was something left to say. Then she turned around, picked up her wand from the floor and left the room without a backward glance.

* * *

A/N: Well? What do you think? Many already guessed as to the reason for Hermione's guilt, but I think it's probable anyway. I assure you though that there's more to it.

The title is derived from another song. Care to guess?

Now that you are all finished with the chapter, I apologise to all you who know about fencing for any mistakes you may find in my portrayal of a faux-lesson and a bout. I had a fencing beta and after she had the chapter she simply never replied to any of my mails. If you find a mistake, or would be willing to step in for future chapters as a sounding board, mail me! I'd appreciate it.

And before anyone thinks of flaming me about Snape's reaction to Hermione's confession, I was inspired to that scene from the book "The Bee-keeper's Apprentice" by Laurie R.King, which dealt with a similar matter. It's a brilliant book on an older Sherlock Holmes, for anyone who's interested. I just thought it was a more unusual reaction one could have in such a situation, and struck me of Snape. I hope I have explained it sufficiently enough in context for no one to become offended. If that isn't so, please tell me and I will try to rectify that.

Up next: Another conversation - and not between Hermione and Snape!