Nine

Disclaimer: They're not mine.

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It was as though he'd been able to see the indecency of her thoughts. For the few days following their brewing session in the dungeon, Snape seemed determined to set a new record for himself with his snide comments and searing indifference to her concerns. In Potions class that Friday, he pronounced their attempt dreadful and turned aside before either Hermione or Ginny could ask a question or get a word in edgewise.

"He's reaching for a new low, isn't he?" Ginny hissed angrily, slamming down her knife. Hermione grimaced and set her shoulders, preparing to start the potion anew. They hadn't sufficient time to get through the entire process before Snape would declare the end of the period, but she refused to simply accept his words and give up. Most infuriating of all, Ginny had continually glanced at her whenever Snape passed by their table, her looks a combination of confusion, pity and bemusement. Hermione appreciated her concern, but it only served to remind her just how brittle and vulnerable she'd felt of late in Snape's presence, and she was determined not to allow it to alter her classroom performance.

Finally, after a bout of particularly vicious invective from Snape that roused the rest of the class to cruel laughter, Hermione turned to Ginny and muttered, "I'm not going to burst into tears, you know. I can handle it just as well as you can."

"You look like you might," the other girl countered.

Hermione felt her eyebrows draw together, and she glowered. Ginny's face broke into a grin. "There we go," she whispered. "Much better. Let him see that expression and maybe you'll terrify him into giving us a passing grade."

"No one's getting a passing grade," Hermione shot back, glancing around at her classmates appraisingly. Sure enough, once the laughter at the two girls' expense had died down, the other students had returned dolefully to their attempts at the potion, all of which appeared to be outright failures.

"He knew we weren't ready for this. He just likes to watch us squirm." Ginny tossed her quill and textbook back into her book bag. "Sadist." She rose stiffly to her feet. Snape looked up from his desk, and their gazes met with the resounding crash of dueling swords. Hermione searched for any sign in Ginny's countenance that she was feeling threatened by their forbidding instructor, but she seemed unaffected.

"Miss Weasley, Miss Granger, you have two minutes to turn in your final product." The others had already turned in their various conglomerations of ingredients, none of which seemed to have melded seamlessly into the consistency of an actual potion. Hermione, joining Ginny, rose as well, and the two girls moved out from behind their work table and glumly regarded the array of vials spanning his desk.

"Why not?" Ginny said with an indolent shrug, grabbing their vial and plunking it down at the very end of the desk. Snape's lip curled into a sneer. Ginny met his eyes defiantly, and Hermione was forcibly reminded of the expression the youngest Weasley frequently got when she was preparing to let fly with a hex.

Seeming to wise up, Ginny turned on her heel and flounced out of the room. Hermione followed, though reluctantly. Loath as she was to remain in his presence...he'd been in an exceptionally foul mood that day, a truly spectacular sight to behold...she couldn't help but suspect that the drastic downturns in Snape's already taciturn personality corresponded to occurrences of strong breakthrough pain, perhaps flare ups of his old injuries. All through the class period, he'd seemed to be hunched over his desk with a rigidity that was unusual even for him, and she'd had to bite back the urge to offer him something, anything, to help.

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"Sometimes," Ginny informed Hermione as they sat down to supper later that day, "I think I'm just like everyone else, and I can't get past how Snape behaves towards us in the classroom. He's an ugly, unbearable prat, and I can't imagine what you see in him.

"But he's probably just having a really bad day," she continued with a resigned sigh, filling her plate with shepherd's pie, "and I really don't think he's that ugly. Besides, if I said he was, you'd probably curse me."

Hermione smiled gratefully. Though she'd been through quite a bit in the past few months after having declared herself liberated from dependence on others' opinions, it still felt like an immense relief to have someone with whom she could discuss her Snape predicament. The novelty had yet to wear off; the first few words of their conversations always set her heart hammering, and she would have to remind herself that baring her thoughts to Ginny was acceptable, even wonderful.

She had longed for days to admit to Ginny the full details of her upcoming Saturday meeting with him, but Ginny had been preoccupied. Harry and Ron had obtained permission from McGonagall to visit the school later that evening, and they'd already secured Ginny's promise to play Quidditch with them despite the freezing weather.

Ginny was chewing thoughtfully and regarding Hermione with searching eyes. "You seem jumpy."

"Jumpy?" Hermione thought the question had come across as natural enough. After all, she'd been expecting a remark more along the lines of, 'You seem nervous,' or, 'You seem embarrassed.' Jumpy was hardly the term she herself would have used to describe her current state.

"Yes. Jumpy. You've been jumpy all day, like you're nervous about something."

There it was. Hermione resisted the urge to thunk her head down against her plate and bury it in her shepherd's pie.

"You are nervous. I can tell. What's going on?"

"I told you I have to meet with Snape again tomorrow, right?"

"Yes, you mentioned it. I'm sure he'll be in a better mood by then, if that's what you're fretting about." Ginny buttered a roll and shook her coppery head. "It's honestly such a shame that the two of you can't get together, isn't it? He'd probably be in a much better mood if..."

"Gin!" she exclaimed in an undertone.

"Well, he would," Ginny whispered back obstinately. "But what's going on with you if it's not about his mood? You're still nervous about being alone with him? You met with him Wednesday and you said it went fine. You said you didn't lose concentration or anything. Were you lying?" she asked bluntly, her voice rising.

"No." Hermione glanced around worriedly, then said softly, "I was honest with you when I summarized everything before. It did go well. It's more difficult to concentrate around him when it's only the two of us in the room, but he left me alone much of the time, so I adjusted to it eventually. Tomorrow will be a completely different situation: we have to go out and collect a particular ingredient from the Forbidden Forest."

Ginny lifted her eyebrows inquiringly, too busy chewing to respond, so Hermione forged ahead. "Unicorn blood."

The brown eyes across from her widened, and Hermione could feel herself starting to blush. "Really?" Ginny asked once she'd swallowed. "You're going to go with Snape?"

"I haven't any other choice. He explicitly told me to show up at eight o'clock Saturday with 'someone suitable,' and I don't know of anyone I could ask to go in my place. "

Ginny snorted. "Someone suitable. Well, you are suitable, right? You and Ron never...?"

"No."

"And you and Viktor never...?"

"I was fifteen!" Hermione cried in outrage. Too late, she realized that half the Great Hall was staring at her interestedly, including the majority of the teachers. Irrationally, her first thought was that she was relieved Snape didn't happen to be present. Chastising herself and ducking her head, she hissed at Ginny, "No. To answer your question, Viktor and I didn't..."

Ginny was grinning widely, shaking her head. "You've still got a lot to learn about the differences between Muggles and wizards, Hermione. Fifteen isn't an unheard-of age for... Well, moving on: you have to collect it yourself because there's no one else you can ask. That sums it up?"

"Yes."

"Well, maybe I overreacted." Ginny put down her fork and examined her fingernails pensively. "After all, why would Snape care if you're a virgin? I can see where it might be embarrassing for you to have anything regarding sex brought up in a conversation with him, but it's not as though you should be ashamed of it."

"I don't feel ashamed, exactly," Hermione said with a sigh, putting aside her fork as well. The Great Hall was beginning to empty, satiated students wandering out to enjoy their Friday evening, making it easier to hold their candid conversation at a reasonable volume. She straightened her back and shoulders, facing Ginny fully. "It's more than that. Although I realize there's no way that anything will happen between us, I've worked my entire life to be mature. I've come to terms with the fact that I can't be what everyone else wants me to be all at once, but this is also, unfortunately, the single most effective way for me to demonstrate...in front of him, nonetheless...that I'm still immature in many ways."

Ginny shrugged and reached for a frosted cupcake. Hermione's fingers itched to do the same. "I guess that depends on how you perceive virginity. It seems to me that in many ways, Muggles have it all wrong. I wouldn't say it's a matter of maturity, for instance. After all, look at Ron: he lost it to Lavender, and neither of them are especially mature compared to you."

"True," Hermione conceded. "And Snape has certainly caught enough students in various corners over the years to realize that the mature ones aren't the only ones breaking the rules, I suppose. I'm just not keen to have one more reason to feel like nothing more than his student."

"Is that all, though? I would think that if you were to feel embarrassed for any reason, it would be because it's broadcasting the fact that none of your past relationships have really gone all that far or gotten that serious."

Hermione cocked her head. "Yes. I think that's an apt way to put it, now that you've said that. None of my relationships...my two relationships...have amounted to much, and he's..."

"An adult."

"Yes." She blushed.

"Who's had adult relationships."

"Very probably."

"Of course, we don't know that for a fact. He had that thing for Harry's mum, and it never went anywhere, did it? So he may have spent all these years pining for her and never become involved with another woman."

The two girls pondered the possibility for a few moments. Ginny frowned. "But that would be a long, long time without..."

"Yes."

"Even Snape can't be that antisocial."

Hermione, still blushing, was inclined to agree.

Ginny visibly shook off the deep consideration and gulped down pumpkin juice, crinkling her eyes sympathetically. "I don't really know what else to tell you, Hermione. I don't think there's any kind of sound advice for what to do when the person you're infatuated with is twenty years older and has probably been sexually active since before you were born. Who knows how many women he's been with, even as... unpleasantly as he acts most of the time. And on top of that, he is your professor."

Hermione stared at her. "Thanks, Gin. I really needed to be reminded of that."

Perhaps, she thought, glancing at the mostly empty teachers' table, she really did.

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Quidditch, Hermione was beginning to see, had a good many benefits for the body as well as the mind. She was nearly frozen solid as a result of having spent the past four hours flying around the Hogwarts grounds with Ginny and the boys, but she was pleasantly achy in muscles that she hadn't used in far too long.

The combination of a busier school schedule and making an effort to resurrect her social relations with Ginny, Ron and Harry had begun to have distinctly positive effects for her. She awoke in the mornings feeling pressed to do something. Rarely did she feel a resurgence of that particular brand of heaviness, pensiveness, that had plagued her for so many months.

The benefits didn't stop there, she was happy to note. Ginny had quietly but efficiently forged for herself a role as Hermione's confidante and activity partner, wiling her way into Hermione's confidences and encouraging her to become more physically active around the castle grounds. As Hermione stripped off her sopping wet clothes and pulled on her pajamas that evening, she was pleased to note that she looked healthier and happier than she had in recent memory. She was still eating too much, she admitted...seeking solace in the kitchens when her anxieties became too prominent to handle...but there was a pink glow in her cheeks that had been absent before, and she felt as though she'd regained some equanimity and perspective.

She was too excited and too nervous about the next evening to sleep. She'd hoped that she and Ginny could spend the evening talking, but Ginny had been squired off to some romantic rendezvous with Harry. She and Ron had exchanged a few slightly awkward words, and then he'd taken off soon thereafter to return to London, presumably to spend the night with Lavender. Hermione was beginning to recognize the anticipatory glow that entered his eyes when he was savoring the prospect of seeing her. It no longer stung, but it wrought in her chest a vague ache. She wanted to be happy for them, and she'd wished him well.

Lying on her stomach, tracing her fingers idly across the patterned comforter, Hermione stared out the window of the room. Darkness rendered the Forbidden Forest a mass of indistinct, sprawling wilds, and she rose and walked to the window to observe it more closely. She was fascinated by the way solids and shadows seemed to swirl in and out of existence, moving and merging with no rational pattern.

Its reputation was well deserved, as she knew from experience, but she couldn't help but feel that walking into its depths the next evening beside Snape would add an even more thrilling dimension. The castle had always been rife with rumors about Snape's activities, and it was said that his intimate knowledge of the Forbidden Forest was second only to Hagrid's in its vastness. He'd probably spent years learning its geography and its secrets while collecting potions ingredients.

It should have reassured her that she could be confident in his knowledge, that there was no reason to fear that he would lead them astray, but somehow it only served to speed her heartbeat even more.

Resolving that she had to find a task to which she could apply all her nervous energy, Hermione donned her school robe over her pajamas and crept softly out the door. Hogwarts' curfew had long since fallen, but there had been several instances during that school year when she'd wandered the halls illicitly, and Hermione couldn't help but suspect that the teachers knew of her propensity and tolerated her. There had never been any conclusive evidence, of course, but small sounds and movements, as though feet and fabric were rushing in the opposite direction or ducking down a hallway, had often suggested to her that the nightly patrolman or -woman was making an effort not to directly sight and punish her. Perhaps McGonagall, concerned as the woman was about the state of her mental health, had spoken with the other instructors. Perhaps they'd all hoped that walking would become her catharsis.

Invariably, her aimlessly wandering steps would become purposeful, and Hermione would find herself heading in the direction of the library. She dropped most of the wards, rendering ineffective all but the basic alarms that would alert Madam Pince of her intrusion. There had to be a conspiracy amongst the teachers to allow her to indulge in her nightly excursions, she thought to herself, for the spells guarding the library were too simple to deter most seventh-year students.

Creeping through the book stacks, it took her mere minutes to find what she sought. Grasping several texts pertaining to magical creatures and their behavior, Hermione retired to a chair and began paging through. A cursory examination revealed that most of the information about unicorns was very basic: their classification, thoughts about their origins, their diet and mating behavior. A brief mention was made about their complicated reactions to witches and wizards, and Hermione was reminded of Hagrid's lessons years ago as he'd encouraged the boys to approach only the youngest of the unicorns. They don't mind boys so much at that age, he'd told them gently. Hermione had watched the flashes of hurt crossing her male classmates' faces and found herself wondering, with the impassioned nature of her twelve-year-old self, why unicorns of any age should mind boys so much. Boys weren't so bad, she'd thought then. They could be a bit reckless and ill-behaved at times, but they weren't bad.

Only time, she thought wryly, could serve to demonstrate how deeply ran the divide between the natures of men and women. Unicorns, the books all stated, would willingly submit themselves only to virgin maidens. Hermione had known this perfectly well, but she yearned for more information.

Returning to the stacks, she replaced the first set of texts she'd retrieved and went in search of another. This time, her deliberation led her gradually to the Potions section, where she began grabbing volumes about rare and exotic potions ingredients. It was a shame, she decided, that no one had ever penned a volume specifically about the best way to collect potions ingredients. If Snape was to be believed, it was a separate art in its own right.

Paging through her new finds, Hermione felt her heart swell with excitement. Therein was some of the depth and detail she'd craved: specifics about the behavior of unicorn blood in potions and its effects on magical beings as well as step-by-step instructions about its acquisition. The virgin maiden was to seat herself under a tree...seat, the text stated explicitly...and always appear as nonthreatening as possible. Drawn to the lightness and purity of her, the unicorn would emerge from the surroundings in its own time. There was nothing to be done to hasten the process; it was known to take hours, sometimes even days, and its eventual success was determined almost solely by the perseverance of the maiden in question.

Amused at the thought of herself as a maiden, Hermione continued reading. Beyond the mechanics of the act...using a special knife to gently cut the thin skin over its leg and placing the blood in an equally special vessel...there was little else to be gleaned. Hermione grew disappointed again. She'd hoped for even more guidelines. What else could possibly determine whether or not the unicorn cooperated? If she wore certain clothes or bathed in certain oils, would it make her repugnant or more attractive? Did it make any difference to the unicorn how she appeared or smelled outwardly or was it solely the creature's sense of her sex...and her purity...that impelled it to approach her?

Caught in her contemplations, Hermione jumped at the sound of a slight rustling. Her eyes roved around the room, becoming alarmed, but she caught sight of nothing. Yet again, as when wandering the halls late at night, she felt the fine hairs along the nape of her neck and her arms stand at attention. She saw nothing, but her body felt that someone was there.

She rose and forced herself to explore. "Lumos," she whispered, stalking through aisle after aisle, finding nothing. Her nerves didn't relent, but she found the presence of mind to recall that she needed to return the potions textbooks to their proper place.

Gathering them up in her arms, Hermione returned to the Potions aisle. Placed at the very back of the library, it was the darkest and least popular of the subject aisles...not unlike its instructor, she reflected, oddly warmed by the thought of the forbidding Potions master. As she lifted the first text from the stack in her arms and placed it back on the shelf, her nerves went into overdrive. On the shelf directly above the area from which she'd taken the books, a volume had been pulled outward.

It jutted forward very obviously, as though daring her to take it.

Hermione nearly dropped the remaining books in her arms. She looked around wildly, heart truly racing this time, but again there was no one to be seen. Someone was here, she thought. And that someone had to have heard and seen her present. If it had been a student, why would they have wanted her to read that particular volume? If it had been a teacher, why would they not have punished her for her infraction?

In either case, why hadn't they simply made themselves known?

Simultaneously very curious and very suspicious, Hermione placed the other texts back on the shelf and crossed her arms, staring apprehensively at the mystery volume. It was clearly ancient: its spine was bent and slightly bowed, and its cover, or what she could see of it, was aged many years. It looked as though Madam Pince hadn't been able to summon the motivation to keep it as immaculately and unerringly perfect as her usual standards dictated. It had to be an unpopular book indeed.

Hermione cast a quick spell intended to detect Dark activity. No threats appeared present; the book did not radiate a signature or an aura of magical influence. She had no way to determine whether or not it had been sprinkled with an offensive or toxic substance.

You're just going to have to be brave, she told herself, gritting her teeth and wrapping her fingers around its spine. Yanking it from its place, she was surprised by its lightness; it was quite small, barely several hundred pages, and the parchments were yellowed to the point of antiquity. Upon closer inspection, the binding and jacket revealed nothing of its title or contents.

Gingerly pulling open the cover of the volume, Hermione glanced down and took in the title. Ingredients and Adventures for the Exotic Potion Brewer: A Reference. Flipping through the pages, she was pleased to find a wealth of information pertaining to the collection of potions ingredients from magical plants and other specimens. Skipping ahead to the section marked simply Unicorns, she was thrilled with the detail included, far more than that of all the other books combined.

Someone had had the intelligence to commit to paper such invaluable information, she thought with satisfaction.

And with the exception of Ginny, whom Hermione knew to be elsewhere, only one person in the castle knew that she would have need of such information, but he'd allowed no other traces of his entrance to linger in the library. Sparing another glance around the room, Hermione felt a sharp pang of arousal and disappointment.