Chapter 11: El Maestro de Esgrima

Disclaimer: It's not mine. It never was and it never will. Sadly.

Thanks as ever to my vigilant betas, lux_astraea and ladyinthecloak. I really hit a dry spell with this chapter, and both of them helped me a lot to get the muse back into gear. I am especially indebted to the prompts both lux_astraea and firefly124 gave me when I was at my most desperate. In the end only the OotP movie premiere pulled me out of the writing drought completely. Go figure. :)

Thanks also as ever to my little one, who in true JK style waited patiently while I wrote on 'Wicked' (and Trials and a few RLHG one-shots) in a cafe in between pretzel bites. You're an angel. *hugs* :)

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Chapter 11: El Maestro de Esgrima

Hermione spent the hours till the next morning in a daze of a kind and only came back to herself when she heard Ginny mention something about a birthday.

"Hmm?" she inquired with a blank look.

"Hermione. Harry's birthday. The one we've been planning since you arrived. You didn't forget, did you?"

"No! No, of course not. I just..." I just forgot. "I was just thinking about something and didn't immediately get what you meant. Of course I wouldn't forget Harry's birthday. He's my best friend after all," she replied, affronted, but even to her ears it sounded like she was protesting too hard.

Ginny glanced at her knowingly.

"Well, we're planning after lunch. The party is tomorrow, so we will all have a lot to do today," Ginny added with such a pointed look that it took all of Hermione's willpower not to snap at her. After all, she had forgotten her best friend's birthday party.

When Ginny left the room, she stared at the empty doorway for a moment, leaning onto the backrest of her chair, her arms crossed, fingernails digging painfully into her skin.

Then she shook herself, turned back around to look at the top of the desk, then lowered her head to a few centimetres above the desktop and smacked her forehead against it a few times.

How could I just forget Harry's birthday? What kind of friend am I?

Of course, both Harry and Ron had forgotten her birthday a couple of times over the years, but that did not mean she could do the same. She was organised. She was meticulous about these things. And she always remembered the birthdays of those close to her. And some of those who weren't. Like Professor Snape's. Or Lupin's. Or Dumbledore's. You get the picture.

She sighed. She knew of course why she had forgotten, and no matter how much she scolded herself, it wouldn't get better.

It was getting worse again.

She had hoped that after yesterday she would be able to control herself again one of these days. But this ritual Professor Snape had performed – if that was indeed what it had been – and which had provided her temporary relief, was wearing off. She seriously doubted that whatever it had been could be duplicated – with greater effect – or that Professor Snape would be able to help in some other way. Anything, just to be herself again.

But what was happening to her?

She knew that something was very much wrong – she wasn't stupid. She just didn't know exactly what.

Could it be that her guilt over Sirius' death had turned her into this wreck? Scatter-brained, lost and out of control?

She was merely a shell of herself.

How had it come to this? That she was sitting here unable to concentrate, awash with confusing feelings she couldn't control and without the power to rein them in or make sense of them? Unable to distract herself with anything she usually enjoyed, but which didn't interest her now at all, she could do nothing to alleviate her problem.

And her control over herself in the presence of others was slipping now as well. Clearly whatever Snape had done last night was wearing off.

What did all that mean anyhow?

Had it really been a ritual like she had assumed yesterday? And if yes, then what kind of ritual had it been?

She couldn't imagine a ritual that would only work for less than a day. But then she didn't know much about rituals.

Time to rectify that, she thought grimly. Who knows? It might help distract me from this feverish restlessness. She headed over to the first shelf to her right, thinking it was as good a place as any to start. The 'forbidden' books did not only zap but, if you looked closely, were also surrounded by a fine haze. So she kept a distance to those. There were lots of other interesting books available to her, which she took advantage of. There had to be something about the ritual in one of them...

********

She finally gave up three hours later, just prior to lunch. It was hopeless. No book she was able to access (she wasn't too fond of getting zapped all for nothing, thank you very much) had any mention in it about a ritual remotely similar to what had happened the day before. Not that she knew exactly what had happened, which hampered her search additionally. It was also getting harder for her to concentrate.

The subject of rituals was generally fascinating, as it dealt with a kind of magic that was long gone and had lost its importance over the centuries. Rituals had been all important in the times of Merlin and other great Warlocks, when the importance of magical woods in the form of wands to channel magical energy hadn't been discovered yet. Though Merlin himself had possessed a staff, the power of magical woods was next to unknown back then except for their uses for potions. Back then there was a ritual for every circumstance of life. Love, marriage, baptism, the passage from youth to adult, and even death. Those were the more common ones, which had even survived until today and – in more harmless forms – even in the Muggle world.

The more powerful – and also more dangerous – a ritual was, the more secret it was. They were kept closely under lock and key, it seemed, so as not to inspire reckless and untrained youths to invoke them.

If this was true then this ritual had to be equally powerful and dangerous. There wasn't a mention of it anywhere. Nothing. No name, no instructions, and no mention of what it was used for. Simply nothing. That worried her more than anything else. It had to be awful.

Hermione shivered, flicking through a few more pages listlessly, trying hard to ignore how her hands were shaking.

There were some really interesting – as in difficult – rituals described in a book called Praxis Relice. Bonding rituals of all kinds, like the Unbreakable Vow or an arcane marriage ritual, which sounded quite interesting, although none of the instructions were given, the description of the way it was supposed to work was intriguing. There was also a description of something that sounded alarmingly like what Lily Potter might have used to save Harry. A shiver ran down Hermione's spine at that, but she was grateful that the book hinted that there were precise instructions to be followed which were said to be lost. Hermione doubted that, since otherwise Harry's mother couldn't have used it, but she left it alone for now.

Just then Ginny yelled, in what could only have been a magically amplified voice, that lunch was ready.

Hermione sighed and put the book away, leaving a piece of paper in it, though, to mark her place. The Ways of Old were certainly very intriguing.

********

The rest of the day passed in a whirl fortunately, so Hermione didn't have much chance to brood over her problems for long stretches of time like the previous few weeks. Most of it was naturally taken up with the planning of Harry's birthday, which wasn't as easy as it sounded with Harry being in the house and Molly insisting on the party being a surprise for him. But the planning and the necessary secrecy made for a nice change in the unbelievable boredom of the past weeks so she wasn't going to complain. Although she probably should. Just docilely doing as she was told apparently made both Molly and Ginny suspicious if the wary looks they kept shooting her way now and then were anything to go by.

Typical. If she was quiet, people got suspicious, and if she yelled and slapped Ron... Oh, well, maybe a middle ground between the two would be better. She had tried though, and only the two extremes seemed to be possible at the moment.

Evening arrived before she knew it, and though she was already exhausted from all of the preparations necessary for the next day, she was beginning to feel excited about the first real fencing lesson she would have from Snape when she was heading down to the kitchen for dinner, carefully trying to ignore her uneasiness about that ritual. She was dreading a repeat of Ron's attempt at having The Talk with her again today after dinner, despite the distance he had kept between them all that day. Throughout the day, they had all been too busy, not to mention they were never alone with each other. He had been peeking at her every now and then, in turns both terrified and curious, but didn't say anything to her. She could only hope that her ruse (she still couldn't believe it had worked) would keep him away from her for a while longer.

That's why she excused herself for her evening run as soon as she could, taking care to take her time with changing clothes so that she was about to start when the first of the others were heading up to bed. This way she finished her run when all had gone to their rooms already and she could sneak upstairs at her leisure.

Now that she knew the damn password, her entrance into the room was a lot smoother, not to mention quieter, than the times before. Whatever Snape had done the day before, it had clearly helped for a while. She really hoped he would be able to help her again or have at least an idea what could. She wasn't so naive to think her problem had been solved; she could feel it at the back of her mind more than ever, gnawing at her sanity.

When the door opened magically at her command, she entered, shutting it quietly behind her. And stared.

It was strange to see him dressed in anything but his black robes, waistcoat and trousers, which had caused many a student to liken him to an overlarge bat.

But the white shirt that was closed to the last button at his neck and the beechwood-coloured trousers looked very well on him. Colour suited him as well, which she could attest when he put a blue fencing jacket on over his shirt.

"Don't stand there gaping! You will need to get used to this sight, or you will never evade a hit, let alone score one.... But it brings me to the first point on tonight's agenda. Look over there," he said briskly and motioned over to the wall behind her.

She was surprised that she'd actually managed to overlook the display in front of the far wall when she'd entered. But then Snape had been enough reason to miss it.

A magnificent screen took up most of the wall, a Japanese print of two cranes captured in flight displayed in all their glory. Beside it stood a mannequin draped all over in the massive bulk of what she recognised from her books to be protective fencing garb.

Hermione walked closer to it, inspecting the various parts closely. Apparently it was a whole set of clothes, complete with a glove, shoes and a fencing mask, all in pristine white.

She glanced at Snape questioningly.

"Well? Are you just going to stare at it?"

"Sir?"

"You're meant to try them on to see if they fit, Miss Granger," he said with an impatient gesture of his hand, talking as if that had been perfectly obvious all along. Which she supposed it should've been.

She flushed bright red, from both anger at having not realised the purpose of the screen earlier and from embarrassment. She was going to try them on right now, with him just paces away. She tried not to think of it too much though.

Hermione dragged the screen around herself and the clothed mannequin, then stared at them for a moment, wondering where to begin.

As if on cue, Snape said, as if he was talking about the weather (or as anyone else would talk about the weather; she only heard him talking like this once, about a particular fine pair of butterfly wings he had to sacrifice for a potion in one of his classes), "The appropriate place to start are the fencing trousers. Next the... plastron, the under jacket and the fencing jacket itself. Last are shoes and the glove. One keeps a shirt on beneath the plastron, I'm told." He explained all this as matter-of-factly as she only heard him talk about the correct number of stirs in a potion before.

She put on the trousers, pleased to find them long, but not too long, which was a rarity being regular size as she was, wide and comfortable. Then she picked up what could only be the plastron with a bemused look.

That was... interesting.

It looked like a mould of a woman's bosom – and a generous one at that. It strangely reminded Hermione of a plastic cast of female breast armour, though she had never seen such a thing. Attached to the plastic mould were elastic straps she knew from her own bras, though they were made of a different material.

Shaking her head, with a confused smile she proceeded to put the thing on over her shirt. When she was finished with that not-so-easy task, she looked around for a mirror. One promptly appeared on the wall beside her. She shook her head again, openly smiling now. It looked seriously weird. She couldn't resist the compulsion and knocked once on the rounded part of her breast. She giggled softly at the hollow sound of it. She truly was armoured now, she thought with another giggle.

"Miss Granger, if you would please curb your immature fascination with that contraption and get on with it?"

She couldn't be sure, but he sounded a bit peeved actually.

Hermione headed on to the under jacket and then the fencing jacket itself. With the straps, buttons and zippers, it took a moment for her to figure it out, but she managed quite quickly in the end. Then she looked at herself.

Well.

She looked like a marshmallow. A giant marshmallow. Hmph.

"Well?"

She emerged from behind the dressing screen, self-consciously tugging at the too-large, white fencing jacket she was wearing, muttering insults under her breath.

When her eyes touched upon his shoes and travelled upwards along his immaculately fitting fencing garb, including a trainer's fencing jacket (beechwood-coloured no less), she shot him an indignant glare.

"What does that mean? I walk around wearing a sack and your clothes are tailor-made?"

"A man's form is hardly material. The figure of a woman, however, especially with that plastic contraption, tends to distract from the matter at hand."

She just caught herself in time before she started to disagree. He didn't need to know she found him very distracting the way he was dressed and otherwise as well.

But wait! Did he just say...?

He found her appearance sufficiently distracting to put her in this sack?

She blushed, though this time she didn't give a fig.

A heady feeling rushed through her body at lightning speed, and she had to swallow around her very dry throat. Hermione realised something right then – something she recognised to having felt in fourth year as well: It was nice to be appreciated. Especially by someone who one appreciated as well – sort of.

She didn't have a lot of time to muse over this startling revelation, however, for only a moment later, Snape began snapping at her again.

"Well? What are you waiting for, girl? Get over to the mat. We'll start with drills now."

And he continued in a similar vein. To do this, to do that. He called them 'drills'; she called them 'slave-labour'. Plus he was being his usual evil-git-classroom self again. That strangely disappointed her. If she had thought his demeanour and behaviour toward her would change just because they seemed to have come to an understanding and he had – strange enough but that's what it was – comforted her a few times, she was sorely mistaken.

She couldn't do anything right, according to him at least, and she was inclined to say he was right. Her attacks were just plain rubbish, judging by the professor's harsh remarks. That it was a wonder she could do magic at all the way she held the foil was an immediate favourite of hers. Another was that she was still standing upright was a miracle the way she lunged forward as if to swat a nasty insect, which wasn't that far from the truth, she thought, glaring at him.

She either gripped the foil too tightly, or it lay in her hand like a dead fish. She held it too high or too low, too far to the right or too far to the left.

Her stance was passable, but only just so; she was still not resting low enough in the knees. She shuffled her feet too much when taking a step forward and even worse when she took one backwards. Her lunge was an absolute catastrophe: too short, too high and she was too squeamish after yesterday's mishap, stopping before she could actually hit him and so she would never achieve a hit.

At some point she began to question the wisdom of ever considering his offer. A quarter of an hour later, she was fighting back the tears stinging her eyes after yet another insult to her obviously inferior abilities. Five minutes more, shortly before she had been about to give up, something interesting happened: her mind went strangely blank.

Blank, that is, of everything not to do with the drills. She didn't think of the insults (well, mostly, instead she imagined hitting him again and again), why he was like that to her, why she just couldn't manage what he wanted her to, why she was there in the first place, Ron, Harry, the ritual, Sirius...

Everything went deliciously blank – or rather she focused on the task at hand. And then...

Thud.

The tip of her foil hit the bull's eye of fencing: the small heart-shaped black patch located directly over where his heart must be.

Snape said nothing, simply watched her as she gaped at him. Then he gave a curt nod and said, "Now do that again."

She missed of course. As she did twice more. Only when his taunts got considerably worse did she manage that feat again.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud, thud.

Four times in a row. Only then did he let her have a short break.

Panting profusely, she popped open the top buttons of her jacket immediately and sloped over to her stuff on the bench. Wipe off her wet face and neck with a towel or get a drink from her water bottle first?

It was a tough decision, but she opted for the towel first in the end. Scrubbing her face and neck several times, she almost began to feel human again when she grabbed the bottle of water, gulping down half of it in one go.

Her heart rate and breathing slowed, and when she finished taking care of the necessities, she turned back to her teacher.

Snape was still standing exactly where she'd left him – exactly how she had left him, too – studying her.

That stare wasn't like the others though. It felt slightly foreboding, dark even.

Which – now that she wasn't distracted – brought reality and all the things she had managed to avoid thinking about the past half hour crashing back down on her; the helplessness, the pain, the worry, the fear. Unconsciously, she began to worry her bottom lip with her front teeth, tightening her hold on the towel still in her left hand.

She wanted to know and she didn't want to at the same time.

"Why don't you stop this nonsense and just ask what you wanted to ask since yesterday?"

"What has been happening to me, Professor?"

"You're tired, overworked and undertasked at the same time, and you're feeling guilty because of your part in Black's demise."

She frowned. "And? Surely that's not all?"

"Why? Should there be more?"

"You know there is, and I want you to tell me what it is."

He simply studied her for a moment, then said to her surprise, "What do you think happened yesterday?"

"I..." She hesitated, then continued on, "I think you performed some sort of ritual to help me... with everything."

He nodded. "That is partly correct."

"Which part?"

"Oh, a ritual was set in motion last night, but you started it, not I."

"Me? But..."

"Yes, you. I merely played a small but necessary part in it, and the ritual is not yet complete."

"Is that why I'm starting to feel..."

"What?"

".. undone? It sounds strange, I know, but it feels as if it's starting all over again, only worse."

"Yes, indeed it is, Miss Granger."

"When will it be completed then?"

"One stage of the ritual still remains. We will meet here again tomorrow. You mustn't be seen of course." That sounded like a dismissal, and true enough, he was starting to undo the buttons of his jacket, ignoring her. Was that all he was going to tell her about the ritual?

She felt chilled, and her hands cramped into fists.

It wasn't what he'd said about that ritual, but rather what he hadn't said.

That can't be all.

If there was more to it and he didn't want to tell her, then it was most likely bad. Not only that but probably dangerous.

She would be damned, however, if he was going to treat her as they all treated Harry, never telling him anything. Which was one of the reasons she was now in this predicament.

But to call him – not only one of her teachers, but this teacher of all – up on withholding information...

Ah, what the hell...

"That's not all, Professor."

"Whatever would you give you that idea, Miss Granger?"

"I may be on the constant verge of a nervous breakdown these days, but I'm not stupid. You never leave out pertinent details unless it serves your own purpose. But I'll be damned if I let you treat me like every adult treats Harry," she burst out angrily. "I want to know," she added, imploring him to tell her the truth.

For an instant the ghost of a smile passed over his face. But it was gone before she knew it.

"There is no such thing as no forewarning, no hints or no warnings of things to come. There are always clues. To stay in the dark one has to want to stay blind to them."

She nodded slowly at his cryptic words, understanding what he meant to say. But as his intent gaze rested on her, she couldn't help the feeling that they weren't talking about the ritual anymore, but about something totally different.

"What do you want to know?"

She looked at him suspiciously. It wasn't like him to be so... accommodating.

"What will happen if this ritual doesn't work?" She asked the one question that had worried her most since she had noticed something was wrong at the beginning of the holidays. She feared that his answer would confirm her fears.

"I think you know the answer to this question already. If you continue this way without some relief for your soul, you will go mad," he replied with a shrewd look.

Her hands shook as she contemplated a fate she feared above everything else. She thought about the helplessness, the loss of control and how she would never be sure again of what she thought, saw or heard.

There wasn't really a decision to make.

She swallowed around the lump in her throat and asked, hoping her voice wouldn't give her away, "What is this ritual called?"

Knowledge, safe and grounding.

"It's called the Ritus Ultionis, but you won't find anything on it in any book you have access to, so don't even bother looking for it."

"Why is there nothing on it in any book I have access to?" she asked tartly, knowing now who had charmed the books in the library to zap anyone not allowed to read them. Bastard.

"It is an arcane ritual and very dangerous in the wrong or untutored hands."

"Dangerous? In what way?"

"Miss Granger, it is commendable that you'd rather know the full details of what awaits you rather than be left in the dark. It is a smart decision because it evens the balance of power things or people have over us. Knowledge is power in itself. But there are exceptions to this when knowledge makes things not easier but harder to bear. This is one of these instances. The ritual can only begin tomorrow night during the new moon, and it won't help you to fret over unknowns till then."

"But that is precisely what I'm going to do now with only these cryptic words of danger to tide me over! Knowledge is my only..."

"I understand you. I really do, but this ritual is different for everyone, which is one more reason why I can't tell you more. There are only rough guidelines for those leading the ritual to follow. The ritual mostly leads itself. Therefore knowing any more about it won't help you any to know what to expect."

When he saw she was about to protest once more, he asked urgently, "I have to ask you to trust me on this, Miss Granger."

Her eyes widened, then squeezed shut tightly, and she bit her lip, battling with herself.

Damn him.

She opened her eyes again, let out a shaky breath, and looked at him only to find him studying her intently. "Very well," she replied, although a very insistent part of her was rebelling against her decision.

He studied her for a moment longer, then nodded. "The ritual will take place at Hogwarts, and since it will start at about eleven o'clock at night, you will need to come up with a good excuse and meet me here at ten thirty," he explained matter-of-factly, then added as an after-thought, "Since you are in a very vulnerable position until we can be sure the ritual worked, I advise you not to tell anyone about it. In fact, even after the ritual is successful."

"Why?" she asked, surprised.

"The first point is of course that since I was the one you told of your problem, I will be involved in this ritual, and no one must know of my involvement with you for obvious reasons. The second point is that although there has never been a documented case of this... condition happening twice to the same person, most who know of this ritual think of it as an instrument for those who are too weak to deal with the consequences of their actions. Which is of course absolute nonsense, but that wouldn't stop this elite organisation from seeking out known victims and torturing them for sport. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly," she ground out, her face pale and her hands shaking and clammy.

From the emphasis he put on the words it was only too clear who he meant by the elite organisation.

Death Eaters. Images of Bellatrix Lestrange, Lucius Malfoy and... Antonin Dolohov, as she now knew he was called, in the Department of Mysteries made her stomach turn.

Though she had no idea how they could learn of her predicament, she wasn't foolish enough to test it. Just because she couldn't think of a way didn't mean there wasn't one. That was one of the things she had learned in the Department of Mysteries.

She felt her skin cool even more, her hands shaking and a panic surging to the surface. Something... She needed to distract herself. She didn't want to fall to pieces once more in front of him.

Something...

Right.

He looked at her expectantly. "Anything else you wanted?"

She hesitated, but only for a second this time. "Why were you so horrible to me earlier?"

"Miss Granger, what did you feel like when I taunted you like that?"

She flushed, the panic ebbing a little as she remembered. "I was angry... and disappointed."

"Because I set impossible standards, correct?"

She nodded.

"And yet you managed a perfect hit – four times in a row – once you let go of those emotions for long enough to focus on doing instead of thinking of doing and channeled them into motion."

She was confused. "You insulted me, so I was angry enough to stop thinking and do it already?"

"Exactly."

"That's..."

"Brilliant, I know." She could swear he smirked. She didn't even notice how she regained control of herself and her feelings as he proceeded to distract her.

"Familiar, actually. You did the same to get me to break down. You also do that in class."

"Perfected over the years, I assure you, and as you could see, effective."

She nodded thoughtfully. "Mostly. Not everyone is self-assured enough not to doubt themselves."

"Then it is a worthwhile lesson they do well to be taught, Miss Granger. Life is not considerate enough to spare those in need of coddling."

"But with some people a more reasonable approach works wonders," she said with a pointed look.

"Neville Longbottom is a menace near a cauldron because he lets his feelings overshadow his task. He hasn't learnt the lesson yet that it might be prudent not to wear his emotions on his sleeves when he is supposed to be doing something dangerous."

"Neville blossomed when he was taken under the wing by Professor Lupin and Professor M..." she interrupted herself.

"Ah, yes, Professor Moody or should I say Bartemious Crouch Jr. He blossomed under their tutelage indeed, while being taken in by two possible – and in one case proven – dangerous criminals. What does that say about his perception?"

"That he was so grateful to encounter kindness instead of scathing insults he was blind to everything else. There's nothing wrong with wanting to be liked!"

"Ah, Miss Granger, in this case you are wrong. He is liked by many. While some – me included – might ridicule him for his ways, he is liked by true friends and many of his teachers. Why am I that important?"

That was such a convoluted argument, she was actually speechless. "Do you really believe all you're saying?"

"Do you?"

"Would you for once not answer a question with another question?"

"Why should I?"

She was sure to pop a vein any second now when he cut her off with a wave of his hand. "This is a really fascinating dissection of my methods, but since they work and you haven't offered up a suitable alternative, I will keep to them. Now it is getting late and there is much yet to prepare. Change," Snape replied briskly, already undoing his fencing jacket. Dismissed.

Hermione humphed under her breath as she headed over to the screened area, removing one article of clothing after the other. As distracted and miffed as she was, however, she couldn't help but listen to the sounds from the other side of the screen. The soft sounds of buttons being released from their cloth constraints, the swish of the heavier fabric of the jacket sliding against the fabric of his shirt. How he moved over close to the other side of her screen to fold away his clothes.

She had to shake herself out of her preoccupation with what he was doing more than once and hurry so he wouldn't have to wait much longer for her.

Soon enough she was ready, her fencing garb back on the mannequin, and stepped from behind the screen, not thinking anything at the moment. Snape just stood there for a moment, studying her again, then motioned for her to precede him out of the room. Hermione complied, a curious thought being the last she contemplated that night. Where would Snape have procured regular, Muggle fencing garb?

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A/N: I really want to apologise to everyone who has been waiting for this chapter for so long. I hope I have not lost too many of you. I've just been very occupied with RL lately (tried dating again *sigh*), and I participated in the summer round of the sshg_exchange on LJ, which took a lot out of me. The Trials of Matchmaking is a sort of SS/HG/RL threesome and can be found on that LJ comm and very soon on TPP, Ash and OWL as well.

Thanks for all of your reviews and general support, and I hope you'll enjoy this chapter. The next one is already half-way finished, and I hope to post it soon.

The title is of course derived from the excellent book by the same name by Arturo Perez-Reverte. Not mine at all.

'Praxis Relice' is 'Ancient Customs' in butchered Middle English or whatnot. I could try to track someone down who knows what they're doing, but I was so glad to write on 'Wicked' again, I figured this was less important. But if there's anyone who knows what it's called properly then I'd be glad to correct myself.

The dead fish remark is derived and mutilated from one of Alan's lines in 'Dogma' of course.