The Vulnerable Spot

Disclaimer: All rights belong to JKR.

Author's note: Once again, heartfelt thanks, hugs and squishes to potionsmistress23 for her wonderful beta-magic.

As in London, the night had been warm and close at Hogwarts, heating up the usually cool air in the castle, yet Hermione shivered in her sleep. The nightmare that held her in its claws had covered her skin with cold sweat as her subconscious fought a futile fight.

Her world was immersed in inky darkness as unrecognizable shadows moved around her, whispering; only those eyes, those blood-red eyes, glowed in the endless night.

"I... don't... know. Please... I don't –"

"– know!" The word fell from her lips in a desperate whisper as Hermione bolted upright out of her sleep. She blinked, once, twice, waiting for her surroundings to take shape. When she realized that she was still safely in the girls' dormitory in Gryffindor Tower, the young witch drew a deep breath, climbed out of her bed, and cast a quick glance around. She was relieved when she found her roommates still sound asleep.

The last thing she wanted right now was to be forced to give Lavender a full recount of her dream, which she and Parvati would certainly try to analyze.

As if there would be much to analyze. Hermione frowned and turned to the window next to her, recognizing that it was still before dawn. Hogwarts' grounds were immersed in twilight, covered with thick, white mist. She sighed, conceiving that she couldn't have slept more than two hours, as she had parted with Harry and Ron in the common room around three o'clock that night.

It's a miracle I slept at all.

When her eyes wandered absently over the luscious lawns, the full measure of last night's events came back to her, and she felt a lump rising in her throat. She had seldom felt so helpless, so utterly and completely helpless, as she had last night when she had been left to watch how her Head of House was attacked by the dastard superiority of Umbridge's myrmidons. And nothing had prepared her for the shock when, on her way down from the Astronomy Tower, she had to witness how they had carried her unconscious Transfiguration teacher back to the castle.

After all her time at Hogwarts, there was one thing Hermione would never have associated with her Head of House, something she would have thought too ridiculous to even consider: Minerva McGonagall being defenceless.

Yet, she has been. Hermione hugged herself for a moment, rubbing her arms against the sudden breath of coldness she felt as the memory of her stern, capable Head of House appearing so helpless, so vulnerable, and so old refused to leave her alone.

And suddenly, the uncertainty in her chest felt unbearable. She simply needed to know that Professor McGonagall was going to be all right, that her Transfiguration teacher wasn't that severely hurt... that the axes of her small universe were still in place.

She was already heading for the bathroom, when Hermione decided that, in her function as Prefect, she was entirely allowed to pay Madam Pomfrey a visit this morning.

Even before breakfast.

As Hermione closed the door quietly behind her half an hour later, her dormitory was still enfolded in silence. Last night's events had taken their toll on everybody in Gryffindor House. Therefore, as she descended the stairs to the common room, she was surprised to realize that the space wasn't as abandoned as she had expected.

"Ron! Neville! What are you two doing still here?" she exclaimed when she caught sight of the boys, half lying, half sitting on the large, comfortable couch in front of the fireplace.

"Gooh-ood morning, Hermio-one," Neville said with a yawn while Ron mumbled an inaudible greeting, taking a sudden interest in the extinct fireplace next to him.

"Good morning to you, too, Neville," Hermione said with a laugh, "although, well-rested looks different to me." It had been a light-hearted remark, without any second thought, but the uncomfortable look Neville gave her in return let Hermione realize that something in this scene in front of her wasn't right.

"Neville, you're okay?" she asked.

"Yeah, but –" Neville began, but Ron cut him short.

"Neville! We agreed –"

"What did you agree on, Ronald?" Hermione demanded, peering at her redheaded friend.

"Well done, mate," Ron accused before turning to meet Hermione's gaze. "Look, 'Mione, it's nothing, just Harry having another one of those dreams; we woke up from it."

"I see," Hermione said, casting Ron an annoyed glance. Why would he try to keep such information from her? They had promised each other to look after Harry...

She sighed, realizing that it would be irresponsible to postpone her conversation with Professor Snape about her friend's Occlumency lessons, even for another day. She would have to find a way to speak to him some time before her History of Magic OWL.

"Look, 'Mione, it's Harry's business. Even Snape thinks he can look after himself," said Ron with a shrug of his shoulders, disrupting her line of thought. "Anyway, what are you doing here already?"

"I'm going to the Hospital Wing. Maybe I can get some news on how Professor McGonagall's doing," said Hermione. "Want to come along?"

"Naaaah." Ron grimaced. "Neville and I are going to try to catch some more sleep here on the couch, right, mate?" Neville merely nodded, stifling another yawn.

"See you at breakfast, then," said Hermione, ignoring the subtle sting of disappointment in her heart.

A moment later she climbed through the portrait hole.

Like most of Gryffindor Tower, the rest of the castle appeared to be still asleep as well when Hermione descended the enchanted stairs. Only a portrait here and there waved at her while the ghosts and other magical inhabitants of Hogwarts were nowhere to be seen. Even the house-elves were obviously taking much-deserved rests, and Hermione pondered if she could ask Dobby later to deliver a message to Professor Snape for her. It wouldn't be advisable for her to approach him openly in the Great Hall; she couldn't risk giving the whole Slytherin table the impression that their Head of House was, to some extent, on friendly terms with her.

Hermione still hadn't met another soul on her way when she reached the third floor, the echo of her own footsteps the only sound as she walked down the abandoned hallway. She was only meters away from the large doors of the Hospital Wing when, suddenly, the ancient wood creaked.

Hermione stopped short, paralyzed by the unexpected sound. In front of her, the doors to Hospital Wing were pushed open, and a moment later, as if summoned by her thoughts, Hogwarts' Potions master stepped through.

He looked weary to the bone as he turned her way, his eyes once again wrapped by dark smudges, and the young witch felt a sudden rush of her all too familiar concern for him.

The second her professor beheld her in the hallway, a frown settled on his face. "Miss Granger, may I inquire as to what you are doing here this early? Are you not feeling well?"

"No, I am fine, sir, thank you," said Hermione, casting him a small smile. "However, I had hoped that Madam Pomfrey could tell me how Professor McGonagall is feeling this morning."

Professor Snape arched an eyebrow. "And how would you come to know about your Head of House being in the Hospital Wing, Miss Granger?"

"Well, the Astronomy OWLs were held when the attack happened, sir." Hermione heaved her shoulders sadly. "There were so many Stunners, a–and some of us saw her being carried back to the castle..." She trailed off, a waver in her voice. "She's going to be all right again, isn't she, Professor?"

The Potions master cast an inconspicuous glance over her shoulder before he met her gaze, and Hermione suddenly knew, knew from the strange glistening in his dark eyes, that her Head of House was far from being all right.

"I am afraid it is not in my realm of possibility to tell you this, Miss Granger," he confessed, his voice soft, "Professor McGonagall hasn't regained conscious yet. Therefore, Madam Pomfrey decided to transfer her to St. Mungo's a few minutes ago. We will have to wait, Miss Granger."

"Oh." The word was a mere breath on her lips, so unlike the sudden storm of worry and anger seizing her stomach. Professor McGonagall... still unconscious... transferred to St. Mungo's...

Hermione drew a shaky breath, fighting for a calm that refused to arise; and as her eyes clouded with tears, she looked away, unwilling to allow her professor to see her cry oh-so-foolishly. Again. However, for a mere heartbeat, she thought she saw his long fingers reach out for her, but the vision was gone the moment the echo of distant footsteps filled the air.

"If there is nothing else with which you'd wish to make yourself a nuisance, Miss Granger, I suggest you return to your common room," Professor Snape said coolly. Only a moment later, the mask of indifference was perfectly in place again.

Without waiting for her response, he swept past Hermione, abandoning her in the hallway.

But there is, a voice in the back of her mind suddenly protested. There was something she had wanted to tell him. Hermione shook her head, trying to banish the worry for Professor McGonagall from her thoughts.

Harry.

How could she have forgotten? She wanted – needed to tell Professor Snape about Harry. He had to know that Harry was still having those dreams. And she needed to do it soon because if she didn't, Harry would leave Hogwarts, would leave for the summer without being able to protect his mind from You-Know-Who's invasion; the Durselys would only notice if something was wrong with him when it was too late – when Harry was lost.

Without any further hesitation, she called after him. "Professor Snape! Just a moment please."

Her professor stopped at the sound of her voice and turned around, favouring her with an expectantly raised eyebrow. "Yes, Miss Granger?"

Hermione closed the distance between them with a few swift steps. "Sir, I know it might strike you as an unusual request, given that I already took my Potions OWL, but there's a question regarding my last essay that only occurred to me this morning," she lied. "You left a comment referring to my description of the use of Phoenix Tears on non-magical wounds that I don't quite understand, I fear. And I wanted to ask if you could maybe explain it to me."

She cast her professor an apologetic smile while she looked straight into his dark eyes. For what seemed to be an eternity, those unfathomable depths narrowed dangerously. It was obvious Professor Snape knew that he hadn't left any kind of comment on her essay. He never had, not in five years. It was always just her grade at the bottom of the parchment.

Therefore, in a flash of inspiration, it had seemed to be the most promising way to signal to her perceptive professor that she needed to speak to him, needed to speak about something she couldn't express openly. And somehow, she simply knew that through the unspoken alliance they had formed in the last months, he would understand – that he would trust her.

"My office, Miss Granger, in half an hour. Don't be late," her professor said imperiously. "And let's hope for the sake of Gryffindor's House points that your question is worth drawing upon my time."

A second later, he strode away with billowing black robes, and Hermione felt a smile touch her lips as her gaze followed him on the way.

Exactly half an hour after they had parted in the hallway, Hermione knocked on Professor Snape's office door.

"Come in!" his voice commanded from inside.

Hermione entered and found her professor standing at the workbench, his back turned to her.

"Close the door, Miss Granger."

Hermione grasped the handle and pushed the heavy oak door carefully closed before her gaze flew back to workbench; still her professor hadn't turned to face her. From the slight bow of his head, she could tell that he was examining something.

Using the unobserved moment to take a closer look at her surroundings, she waited. She hadn't been in Professor Snape's office since her second year. And even after all this time, its cold and gloomy atmosphere struck her. Her eyes traveled over the different shelves filled with glass jars, vials and boxes, and she realized that, contrary to the Potions classroom, this room lacked the comfort of daylight.

"Miss Granger, when you have stopped gawping all over my office, I would be delighted to hear what kind of issue you thought was important enough to draw unnecessary attention from uncounted eyes in this castle by visiting my office out of office hours or detentions."

"Of course. I apologize, sir. The reason I asked – I need to talk to you about Harry's last Occlumency lesson, Professor," Hermione explained. "I wondered if –" However, she never had a chance to finish her sentence, as suddenly, a loud thud followed by the forceful sound of cracking glass tore through the room.

Hermione stifled a shriek. Her eyes flew to her professor, who still stood unmoved from his workbench, yet his whole frame shook slightly. Something was wrong; very wrong.

She made a step forward, one hand instinctively reached out in concern. "Sir, are you –"

However, the Potions master cut her off. "And what concretely did Potter share about his last Occlumency lesson with you, Miss Granger, that you felt the inane need to discuss the subject with me?" Despite the usual ridicule in his question, Snape's voice held, suddenly, a raw... vulnerable timbre. Hermione shivered involuntarily at the sound.

"I – nothing, sir."

The words had barely left her lips, when Snape spun around. His black eyes flashed feverishly before he asked, "Nothing?"

"No, nothing," confirmed Hermione. "Well, nothing, except for the fact that you have ended them because he is now advanced enough."

"Ah yes, certainly, advanced enough," Snape said mockingly. He approached her with slow, calculated movements while he spoke, his black eyes assessing her with every further step.

Like a predator advancing on his prey, Hermione thought, and for the first time, she felt a flicker of fear rising in her chest.

"And that was all he told you, Miss Granger?" her professor inquired, his voice laced with venom and warning.

"Yes, sir," Hermione said firmly, "I don't know what you are –"

"Silence, Granger!" Snape bellowed, taking another step toward her.

Instinctively, Hermione made several steps backwards, one hand searching blindly for the door. All her senses told her to leave, to flee from whatever had befallen her professor. However, before she even had the chance to reach the door, the ancient lock latched with an authoritative Snap! behind her.

"I haven't given you the permission to leave, Miss Granger. Not yet," Snape sneered, "Not before you have answered me satisfactorily. Therefore, I repeat myself one last time; was that all Potter told you, Miss Granger? That he was advanced enough?"

Hermione nodded, her throat feeling suddenly too tight to speak. This wasn't the professor she trusted, the professor who had not only protected her from exploding cauldrons and toad-faced headmistresses but from evils she might never know. And somewhere, in a far corner of her mind, she knew, knew all too well, that she had every right and reason to protest against his behavior, yet she had no words left.

Trying to force a rein on the panic that was on the verge of seizing her, she closed her eyes momentarily, shielding herself from her professor's cold glare. When she opened them again, her gaze caught a reflection on the floor. Dark. Glittering. It was a small trail of something, meandering through nearly the whole room, starting at Snape's workbench. In a split of a second, her eyes followed the peculiar path, and her heart clenched when she conceived its nature–and its source.

Seemingly unbeknown to her professor, a slow yet steady flow of blood trickled through the clenched fingers of his right fist.

"Professor, your hand!" Hermione exclaimed, alarmed.

His gaze dropped, and she was left to watch how the Potions master raised his wand hand and forced his fingers slowly open–all too slowly for her peace of mind. A moment later, his face contorted with pain, and small pieces of glass fell to the floor.

Hermione gasped, causing her professor's gaze to search hers. Their eyes locked, and she found nothing more of the feverish rage in those dark orbs that had him seemingly teetering on the brink of madness, only unconcealed shock and hurt. It was as if he had just realized what had happened in the last minutes; that in his rage, he had crushed a vial with bare hand, that he had threatened her, forced her to remain here with him...

"I apologize, Miss Granger, my behavior was uncalled for," Snape said with obviously feigned calm, breaking away from her gaze. Hermione heard the door unlock behind her. "You are free to leave, now."

"But your wand hand, sir," she protested, taking a step towards her professor. "May I help? I am quite good at healing –"

"Out, Miss Granger!" Snape growled. "Now!" The warning was unmistakable.

For the split of a second, Hermione stared at her professor in silent shock before she fled from his office as fast as her legs could carry her, the heavy oak door clunking shut behind her.

Once out of his office, she stopped short. Her heart beat fast and furious like a rabbit's after the flight from the wolf as she leaned her forehead against the dungeon wall next to the door. Only the coolness of the masonry against her skin helped her to banish the dizzy feeling from her head. She needed to concentrate, to think.

However, as much as she wanted to, she felt unable to comprehend what had just happened. She had never seen her professor like this: so full of rage, so beside himself–not since Sirius had escaped, not since he had believed Lily's supposed traitor to be spared from the Dementor's Kiss.

And now, all that rage and hurt just because she had mentioned Harry's Occlumency lessons...

She had long realized that teaching Harry Occlumency, that looking into those bright green eyes, must have been a horrible experience for Professor Snape, like a form of subtle torture. However, it was safe to assume that he had endured things far worse for the Order–for Harry.

Things so far, far worse, only to keep Lily's son safe...

And he had done it without so much as a complaint.

Hermione drew back from the wall, her eyes straying back to the closed office door, and the peculiar painful knot in her chest clenched.

All this, the rage, the hurt had been about something far more complicated than awkward Occlumency lessons; they had run so much deeper ...

And she was sure, within that something lay the reason why Harry hadn't asked Professor Snape about resuming his lessons. But with the way the Potions master had reacted today, and how Harry had been evading her questions about his Occlumency, it was quite clear that both of them wouldn't tell her about it.

Yet, whatever vulnerable spot on her professor's soul her words had unconsciously touched today, she simply wished she knew – knew and had the chance to find a way to take the pain away.

Somehow.

Snape slumped back against his workbench, running his unharmed left hand over his face.

"Damn it!" The curse on his lips was nothing more than an exhausted growl.

Poppy and he had been able to stabilize Minerva's condition just before dawn. It had been a hard fought fight, and he hadn't slept for one hour that night. In fact, he hadn't truly slept since Dumbledore had left the castle; last night's events combined with his general state of exhaustion had torn the scarce remains of his concentration and self-control finally to tatters, and this was the result. His gaze dropped to his injured hand. Fresh blood seeped in a constant flow from the open wound.

He was such a fool. In his blind rage, he had not only harmed himself but also threatened a student. Well, not simply a student, but Miss Granger...

Had it been any other student who had gambled with his patience this morning, he wouldn't have lost his temper. However, there was this peculiar something about her–about the foolish girl who had decided, in all her wisdom, to bestow her trust and kindness upon him; that something crippled his defenses, reaching deep, deep underneath his skin.

And it has to stop. Snape pressed his wounded wand hand into a tight fist and watched how the blood slowly spread through his fingers. Whatever it was about this girl that made him so–so...

He shook his head. He had no words for it, yet it had to stop.

It shouldn't matter more to him if the girl lived or died than it mattered to him for any other student in his care. But it did.

Snape enforced the pressure on his fist.

He should have never allowed that her well-being, that her foolish promise, had become important – that she had become important to him.

It was an unforgiveable weakness, and if the Dark Lord knew, knew that his already shady follower had not only developed a vulnerable spot that concerned a living, breathing human being, one within the reach of his claws, but that it turned out to be Harry Potter's Muggle-born friend... Merlin, the mad man would feed him her heart from a silver platter.

Therefore, the girl was simply not allowed to be important to him.

Yet, she is. Something caught in his throat at the realization.

When he had heard the words "Harry" and "Occlumency" from her lips, lightning white rage had exploded behind his eyes; it was rage spurred by the ancient pain in his chest and the unbearable realization that the girl knew, that the one person he had oh-so-foolishly allowed to become important to him knew what he had called Lily...

... and, with Lily, her as well.

During the Easter break, he'd been surprised that he hadn't caught any students snickering and calling him "Snivellus" behind his back. Usually, he was the first to know when a new rumour flurried high at Hogwarts. He knew only moments after an older student had fed the vampire nonsense about him to one of the first years.

However, not this time. And this lack of chatter among the student body had felt odd. Very odd. And it had made him wonder, when he had lain awake in the wee hours one morning, if Potter hadn't revealed the incident to the whole Gryffindor Tower as could have been expected, that maybe he had only confided to the Weasley boy and... Miss Granger.

It was in this moment that he had realized that the insolent boy wouldn't simply have the chance to ridicule him in front her, but that Potter would reveal to the girl, would quote to the one person whose promise he so unforgivably treasured...

Whenever you need me... I don't need help from filthy little Mudbloods like her.

Filthy little Mudbloods.

Like her.

He had long thought he had already lost everything because of those cursed, spiteful words, as he had lost her, lost Lily; but it was in those sleepless hours, when he had realized that, even after all this time, they were likely to cost him the one thing that had become a small light in his pitiful existence, the girl's undeserved trust and kindness, that present shame had mingled with the ancient pain in his chest and curled into an aching knot.

And today–today, this hazardous mixture of emotion had all broken free in a wild wave of rage when he had assumed that the girl was about to confront him with it–that she truly knew.

However, she didn't. He had seen it in those accursed, soulful eyes the moment he had come to his senses again. There had been no disgust, no accusation, only unconcealed shock and compassion. And he was a fool that he hadn't seen it before, hadn't seen it an hour ago when they had met in the hallway in front of the Hospital Wing.

And still, the annoying girl had had the bravery to offer him her help. It was a mystery to him how, even after his inexcusable outburst, she still had shown concern about his injury – had cared.

Foolish, foolish Gryffindor.

Snape shook his head and placed his wand close to his injured palm. It took some effort to cast the Healing Charm with his left hand, yet a moment later, the deep cut was vanished, and a bitter smile curled his thin lips.

No, you cannot help me, Miss Granger, there are wounds even your magic cannot heal.

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