Tearing the Veil

We own nothing. Nothing at all. Tearing the Veil Chapter 3 "He bloody is driving me bloody crazy with all these bloody detentions!" cried Hermione Granger as she threw her arms up in the air in a perfect image of exasperation. Harry Potter and Ron Weasley were sitting on a bench in one of the many courtyards of Hogwarts castle. They were watching their best friend with very serious appearances; that is, as serious as two hormonal-driven boys can get while licking a unicorn-horn pop. Hermione had been pacing and half shouting her rant for the past ten minutes. These days it was a common exchange. Harry and Ron would talk about their day in the most blase way while Hermione would quickly jump in with the latest of what the giant bat of the dungeons had done this time. "Do you think she said bloody enough?" asked Weasley of Potter. "Nah, she could have thrown it in a few more times," stated Harry with a solemn nod. If was unclear if Hermione heard them or not though she did suddenly cross her arms over her chest and go into a chant of "Bloody bloody bloody bloody bloody." "It is sort of funny, though," said Harry. Hermione whipped around, put her hands on her hips and gave him a quailing glare. "What. Is. Funny. Pray. Tell." Harry awkwardly cleared his throat. "Well, you see Hermione, from a purely objective point of view where I distance myself from the fact that Snape is a Slytherin and I'm a Gryffindor and you're my best friend and he's, well, an arrogant, greasy git - it was really quite comical when he gave you that detention for sneezing." Both Hermione and Ron were giving Harry incredulous looks. "What?" he asked. "Blimey, Harry, when did you get so smart?" asked Ron, his unicorn pop hanging limply in his hand. Harry looked to Hermione for reassurance but one look at her face showed that she too felt the same bewilderment. "I read, you know," he ground out while rolling his eyes and crossing his arms irritably. "Sometimes." Unfortunately this grand revelation did nothing to distract Hermione from the problem at hand. "He has it out for me, I just know it. He really, really hates me. And if I keep getting these detentions I'm never going to be able to study properly and if I don't study I won't do well on my NEWTS and if I don't do well on my NEWTS I won't get a good job and then I'm going to have to go into some small, lucrative career breeding kneazles and be some creepy kneazle lady and people will pass me on the streets and say 'there goes that Hermione Granger - she could have really been something had she not gotten so damn many detentions which utterly ruined her life!'" She quickly breathed in a breath of air and exhaled. Her face was red from the long sentence. "So," said Harry. "Do you feel better now?" "A bit," she said. "I think I just needed to get that out of my system." "I like kneazles," said Ron. "I'd buy your kneazles, Hermione." And Hermione Granger let out a terrible wail and buried her face in her hands. What the trio did not notice was that a pair of periwinkle, twinkling eyes had witnessed the entire conversation. And just like the stars in the heavens, the eyes twinked out as they went to pursue a new prey. Specifically, one who crept in the dark dungeons of the castle. -.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-. "Might I have a word, Severus?" asked Dumbledore as he gallantly swept into Severus' office and took a seatin a comfortable leather winged back chair. Severus irritably looked up from the essays he was grading. Fourth years. Still as stupid as third years but even worse because their hormones were starting to act up. It was the only time he actually agreed with Filch who had at one time showed him a marvelous muggle invention called a cattle prod. Oh - the possibilities. "I suppose," growled Severus. "As I lack choice in the matter." "Quite right. Lemon drop?" Dumbledore asked, holding out the yellow candies in a small bag. "Only if it's poisoned and will get me out of whatever inane task you are going to thrust upon me." "Why Severus, that's the closest you've come to saying yes." Severus rolled his eyes and leaned back in chair. His long fingers came up and massaged his temples slowly. "Get on with it, headmaster. I haven't all day to listen to your incessant prattle about candy." "Ah yes," said Dumbledore as that cunning look entered his eye. Severus was delightfully good at reading people and he knew that when Dumbledore's eyes started twinkling like christmas lights the old man was plotting something sinister. Severus was instantly on the defensive. "You don't have time for me because you are busy tonight?" His voice dripped shrewd honey. "Perhaps too busy with having unruly students serve detentions?" To his credit Severus didn't even flinch. "You know how they are, Albus," he drawled. "The students must be shown a firm hand, especially in the potions classroom. I personally have no qualms with them blowing themselves up though you and the board of governors, not to mention the parents, seem to disagree with me." "Of course, Severus. Sneezing shouldn't be tolerated." Severus clenched his jaw. He might have been found out but he was still a Slytherin. They admit to nothing. "The potion she was working on was very volatile. Any outside moisture could have caused an explosion." "I daresay I have always found Miss Grangers judgement to be very good. I don't believe she would have even unintentionally made a mistake of such enormous proportions." Damn. That. Twinkle. Even a Slytherin knows when to admit defeat. They just don't admit it very loudly. Severus kept quiet and just stared at Dumbledore with an expression that clearly said, Well? What of it? "If you wanted her as your apprentice so badly, Severus, you really ought to have just asked her. I believe she would be overjoyed at the offer." "I don't want her as my apprentice. She's an insufferable little know-it-all who would only annoy me until I poisoned both of us to end my misery." Dumbledore coughed into his hand. "Sometimes I wonder about your over-eagerness to poison people." "I wonder at your dolling out candy to children like those actors in muggle safety- prevention videos." And thus, they were at a standstill. However, Dumbledore was the one paying the salary and like in the muggle world, he who has the money at the end of the game wins. "Ask her to be your apprentice, Severus. And no more detentions. The poor girl is a nervous wreck." Dumbledore stood up fluidly, which for a man of his age was quite the feat. He smiled down kindly upon Severus, who felt very much like he was a wayward child being reprimanded by his benevolent father. "If you don't," said Dumbledore as he opened the door to leave, "I'm more than certain Miss Lovegood will be willing to pick up some extra credit in your class." With the threat of the mentally unstable blond terror parading around his precious potions lab set firmly in the potions master's mind, Dumbledore popped another lemon candy in his mouth and merrily went about his way. -.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-. She was tight, she was panting, and sweating, and her skin was reaching out and accepting his sweat, the little droplets as they coupled there on his - now rumpled - bed sheets. Draco shrugged, though somewhat grunted, thrusting into Pansy, trying to solely concentrate on the skin beneath his, the irregular breaths, the intimacy... No, there wasn't any. This was purely physical, not in the special cutesy-I-love-you-way. This was fun, a sport, a conjoining of two accepting individuals trying to get off. It was bluntly sex. "Draaacc..oooo..." She broke his reverie. He went faster. It was the sole indication, that cry, of a need to be filled, no pun intended. Pansy came from the same background as Draco, the stiff aristocratic minority that hailed its power and affluence from their sacrosanct sanguinity. He was superior, he was male, he was virile. Dear gods, he was trapped. He was a puppet trapped in some side-show display that demanded his every attention and obedience. "You are to serve our Lord," Lucius' simple words the very threat of all existence. "Agh. Draco, Draco, Draco. You're being too rough. Get off." Draco arched his eyebrow while he allowed Pansy to turn over onto her back. The lights in his room were off, but a bit of muted sunlight came through the drapes, casting a grey light onto Pansy's skin and his. It looked like she was glowing from within, with bits of perspiration acting as glitter on a nymph's arms and legs. He was out of breath. "Are we done then?" He wanted it to be over. He kept thinking, and it had nothing to do with Pansy or fucking. He didn't like to equate those two things together anymore. He was bored. "No, we are not done yet. I am not done. What time is it?" She always moved from topic to topic, jumping, trying to fill in her void. "Sometime close to three, from what I last recall." "Ugh, I have to go, I don't have time for this, but that doesn't mean you don't owe me. I expect full recompense tonight for your...inability to perform." She smirked, her full nude form climbing up from its flat position to one up close to his. She pressed her thin, pale lips against his cheek, eyes open with glee, and made contact with his side. "My inability had nothing to do with it. You called out my name. I was doing my job." He ran his hand through his hair. He needed to concentrate, he was slipping. No, he just didn't want her there. "Don't you have to be going?" "Yes, yes, no need to kick me out. Blaise won't mind waiting. He knows I have a defunct internal clock. And don't look at me like that. Just because you are in some wretched mood doesn't mean you're going to take it out on me." Pansy slipped her skirt and robes on, quickly stopping in front of one of Draco's mirrors to check her appearance and smooth her curls. She took a little ringlet and wrapped it around her finger, releasing it so that it would spring up and bounce back into the helix form. "Blaise and I will be back around five or so; no need to wait up for us. I'll probably be a tad bit late to dinner since I have some things to take care of." "Things?" He tried to act interested. This was taking too much control. He was getting a headache. "Mm, yes," she applied lip-gloss and smacked her lips together. "Some girl commented negatively on my sense of style, just girl business." Pansy Parkinson, her tongue-in-cheek-comment really meant the girl was going to be hexed to the point that she could never show her face around. Well, not for a week or so. Was this what made Pansy such a delight to be around? But it was fading. It was growing old. "I'll see you later, behave, and don't get caught frisking some twelve year old behind a statue," she winked, and waved, then was gone. "Cute." Draco was never into pedophilia. He never dared touch the first years at this age. Pansy was just being passive-aggressive. Sometimes she couldn't handle the fact that Draco went wherever he pleased, with whomever. It didn't matter to him if the person was male or female; he was just enjoying the full course that life had to offer, the analogy he usually fell into when describing his tastes. He found everything palatable. Pansy sometimes would screw up her face whenever a comment was made concerning Draco's status as the self-proclaimed Slytherin god of sex, but Blaise would try and draw her attention to other matters to cool the rift. And there was a rift indeed now blatantly apparent between the two. Draco pushed himself off of his very disheveled bed. He shook his head, waved his wand and it was quickly all in order. Contrary to popular belief, the Slytherin prince could make his bed and always had. A man must always learn to do things on his own; one never allowed another to do something that one himself could do. It had to do with pride, and my weren't the Malfoys' proud. Of course, Lucius was proud, of course he'd demand the best, since his interpretation of the epitome of the elite resided in his own character. Which brought Draco's attention to the rumpled correspondence that was on his lacquered desk. Oh Father, Draco laughed in his head, how I respect and promise to uphold ye traditions. He snorted. It was ridiculous, but necessary. There was a complete and total separation between propagators and progeny. Such social rigidity existed that neither the former understood or spoke with the latter; the former could recall such a distance between their own creators, but alas, they lacked the tools to scale the breach that now consumed their world. The letter was plain, Lucius' delicately simple cursive writing detailing how quiet the house had grown since Draco's departure (what lies, the manor was normally silent, each member of the family ensconced in his region of the establishment), and subtlety changed from the atmosphere of life, of the daily politics at work, to the underwritten cause of the epistle: Draco's coming of age. Lucius deemed it important enough to ah, notify Draco that soon he would be betrothed to one of the fine pure-blood wizarding families. There would be little time for his experimenting (sweetly phrased) or at least, his operations would need to be more...covert. Surreptitiously he could continue his rendezvous with whomever he pleased, but the first year of marriage should be a happy and a fairy-tale filled one. Draco could imagine his father scoffing at this - indeed, Draco was as well, but more for the fact that his father expected them to be so intimately familiar with one another. The prospect of marriage was only part of the problem. The Dark Mark was another issue that Lucius was hinting at when mentioning "coming of age events." The entire correspondence reeked of Draco "preparing for his life as an adult," and "assuming responsibilities that demanded the utmost respect and complete abeyance in all other matters." It was engrossing at first to imagine the lengths his father went to try and disguise his letter, and then neglected all pretense when he threatened Draco with "failure is not an option within the Malfoy realm." Since when did any Malfoy have a realm of his own? It was best not to directly question his father. The past summer had quickly, under Lucius' tutelage, taught Draco that rebuttals are not acceptable, nor was direct eye contact. There were no scars, maybe two or three faint ones, but all so thin due to Lucius' mastery of his fine art. The Dark Lord kept him close for many a reasons, none too pretty. At the end was his simple dismissal, and order to send greetings to Pansy Parkison. That did it. He grabbed and rolled the parchment into a small ball and smacked it hard against the wall. I. Hate. Your. Control. It was a repetition of the previous evening. His hand had ached, but he punched the wall again. And again. And he would have done it again, if it weren't for the little dot of red he saw on the white wall the second time. Draco turned around and walked into the bathroom, nude, and stared in the mirror. He walked up close to see his own eyes, the little details that are obscured with distance, then walked back to scrutinize himself. His blonde hair was in his face, falling and framing his cheekbones and allowing his grey eyes to poke through occasionally. The collar bone protruded lightly, and was encased in his skin and muscle, which abounded everywhere. He was sleek, toned, power edging its way though it glided across Draco. He stopped and stared, not seeing his body as an extension of whomever he claimed to be but a separate entity. Is this what they see when they look at me? Hold me? Want me? Was that line of his hip as wonderful as that fifth year boy had proclaimed as he breathily had taken all of Draco? Was it as glorious as that girl who scratched his back when they were in the abandoned transfiguration classroom, and moaned and moaned for more? Ah, it couldn't be, because green eyes would bore into him and forget the body, the scent of man and purchased fine herbs and just stare, stare because he could tell that there might be a mind behind the wealthy faade - or was that just Draco romanticizing all of it? Hah, gods no. It was a load of rubbish, as much rubbish as the letter contained. His life was set indelibly in his father's mind - forget his mother, she was constantly drinking and pretending her precious life wasn't already in pieces - and Draco would have to obey, and grovel. Hell no. He turned off the lights, and rested his gaze on the darker figure before him. He loved the anonymity, the fact that no name could follow that face. He made love to himself in that mirror, simply because it was a version of himself he did not detest. He could love no body and love all of him, because he did not exist. That was his fairytale. -.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-. Hermione sat dejectedly in her favorite corner of the library. It was a bit of a dark corner surrounded by books about the goblin wars (nobody ever read them - listening to Binns was bad enough). Usually the thought that she had an hour to spend in the library would have caused the girl to have palpitations in her excitement (she was generally considered odd by most people) but today was different. With another looming detention with the potions master on the horizon, poor Hermione just couldn't muster up her usual enthusiasm. In fact she was so distraught that she put aside the essay that was due in two weeks and instead pulled out a book for her independent research. Normally Hermione would blanch at the thought of wasting time unless she was at least a month ahead on her work but she felt rather sorry for herself at the moment and decided to indulge in a bit of light reading. The book only weighed around three stone. Considerably lighter than what she took to read in bed before falling asleep. She put her hand under her chin and started reading. Paintings for wizards differ greatly from their muggle counterparts. In essence the consciousness of the individual is preserved on the canvas to lesser or greater degrees, depending on the painter. It has been theorized that if the painter and the subject are bonded in some fashion the degree of consciousness that the paintings gain increases exponentially. After coming to "life" as it were, the painting is able to converse with other paintings and with conscious people, ghosts, and sometimes animals. They are also able to move from frame to frame if they are invited by the residents of other paintings or if they themselves appear in more than one work. The subjects of the paintings do not gain motor skills such as the ability to move from frame to frame and converse with others until the subject has died. Interestingly enough, if the painting is made after the subject is dead it will not ever gain consciousness. The paintings dated from before the Goblin Revolution of 1375 seem to have less consciousness than those from more recent periods. Experts believe this to be because of the discovery of a portal to the Veil, a magical artifact that allows the living to cross over to the realm of the dead. There has been a lot of argument in various sects of the wizarding world as to the correlation between these two events but no solid theory has been developed at this time. Not much information has been obtained on the veil, considering its recent discovery and prompt appropriation by the Ministry of Magic. All that is known is that several individuals met their untimely end after approaching the veil and falling through. Hermione closed her eyes. Untimely end. That's a nice way of saying dead as a doornail. Poor Sirius. "Miss Granger," a voice broke her silent reverie. She immediately recognized the voice and inwardly squirmed. Outwardly she opened her eyes and stood up, brisk attention. "Yes sir, can I help you with anything?" Hermione was thrilled that her voice remained calm. It was almost Slytherin of her. Professor Snape raised a delicate brow and regarded her with a scowl. "I'm here to inform you that your detention tonight is cancelled." Was that a wave of complete shock or happiness that went through her just now? "Cancelled, sir? Is everything alright?" "Yes, Miss Granger," he replied in a somewhat bored tone - like he couldn't wait for this conversation to be over and he could be away from her mind-numbing presence. "Oh. Well," she hesitated. "Do I need to make it up?" "No, consider it cancelled indefinitely." He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. "Miss Granger, there is a matter of importance I would like to discuss with you." "Certainly, Professor." Hermione racked her brain quickly. Had she or the boys done anything recently that would have given Snape reason to try to expel her? She didn't think so, but knowing Snape he would probably just blame it on her regardless. She visibly steeled herself for the worst. "The headmaster has informed me that I should choose from the student body an acceptable . . . assistant of sorts to facilitate extracurricular potions work on my behalf. Unfortunately the student body as a whole does afford many options from which I would normally select and thus I am left with only one viable option." "Malfoy?" Hermione said without thinking. "No." He looked annoyed. "That option is you. Would you be willing to take up an apprenticeship, Miss Granger?" Hermione made some inarticulate noises which reminded Severus of an animal slowly being choked to death. He was immediately worried that he would have to perform that muggle action involving grabbing someone from behind and thrusting them up against your body. Dumbledore had forced the entire staff to learn the technique but for the life of him Severus couldn't recall exactly how it was to performed. Probably because his mind was very much stuck on the idea of having the young chit pressed up against him. Therefore he was not paying attention when said chit literally pounced upon him. In an act of pure, unadulterated joy, she wrapped her arms around the dark man without really thinking, though there was a small voice in her head, which she liked to call her self preservation voice, which was frantically whispering something about how this was not her best impulsive idea ever. Severus immediately stiffened in her embrace. He did not like to be touched, especially when he was least expecting it. Then again, how often had he dreamed of having her touch him in this manner, or in manners even more intimate? However, now that she was touching him, of her own accord, he could only feel some sort of blissful stupor that left him completely speechless and oddly . . . content. Hermione let him go and stepped back once the self-preservation voice became strong enough to invade her consciousness and inform her exactly what she was doing. Her face was slightly pink and she kept her eyes on the floor thus she missed the gentle, bemused expression that flittered across his. "I'm sorry Professor Snape. I don't know what came over me. It's just . . . I've been hoping that I'd be offered an apprenticeship from one of the professors here. It would look fantastic on the transfer applications to a University," she finally looked up at him now, her face beaming with the excitement she couldn't contain even if she wasn't a Gryffindor and tried. Luckily Snape managed to school his features back into casual indifference by this time. "I'd be honored, sir," she said with quiet reverence. "Good." He was inwardly swimming in delight, outwardly he drawled in a bored tone. "Come to my office at seven o'clock so that we can discuss scheduling. I think three or four times a week is sufficient?" "That would be fine, sir." Snape merely nodded and turned to walk away. He was only a few feet before he heard her voice calling him. A shiver of delight went up his spine every time she called him Professor. What he wouldn't do to have her call him by his first name - to hear her voice wrap around the syllables like silk. "Yes, Miss Granger?" He didn't turn around. She hesitated for a few seconds, as if choosing her words carefully. "I . . . that is . . . Thank you, Professor. For the opportunity." "If you really want to thank me," he said, "You won't disappoint me." -.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-. Later that evening found Hermione doing exactly what she had been doing in detention; sitting in front of a cauldron mixing some tedious potion for the hospital wing. Slytherin was about to play Hufflepuff that weekend and Madam Pomfrey knew that she was going to need more than a few bottles of Pepper-Up Potion for Hufflepuff. Still, now that she was there voluntarily and more than willing (she mentally drooled at the thought of writing Apprenticed Under Severus Snape, Potions Master on her applications) her attitude was a complete one-eighty of what it was only yesterday. Of course she could only daydream of the perfect application for so long before her mind wandered from that. She used a rod to carefully stir the cauldron and was pleased to note the faint red-brown color. The potion was coming along swimmingly. Of course, even Neville could have probably made this one without that much trouble (provided Snape wasn't in the room and Hermione was carefully guiding him). She rather wished she could be working on something like the Wolfsbane. Now that had been interesting, challenging even. Hermione mentally shrugged. She'd probably get stuck doing a lot of drudge work. She sighed and glanced around the room. Snape was at his desk grading papers. She watched him as he scratched at the essays with a bored expression on his face. One of his hands was slowly massaging his temple while the other furiously crossed off entire sentences in red ink. Hermione could not help the trail of her eyes. The seemed to be single-mindedly focused on his hands of all things. They were such long, pale and shapely tools. Boney, perhaps, but not weak as the word suggests. They were strong, gifted, even sensuous. They were the hands of a master, she thought a bit enviously. Her own hands were so small compared to his - both literally and metaphorically. She wondered what his hands had touched, the various weeds and animal intestines, whose hands he shook in his own, whose bodies allowed themselves to be under the direction of those powerful implements. Hermione indulgently allowed her mind to wonder what his hands would feel like against her own. Would they be warm or cold? It was hard to say. His personality was aloof, stoic, harsh and authoritarian. But earlier that day, when she had given him that impromptu hug, his body had not been cold. Rather it had been warm (perhaps a little hot), and the material of his clothing soft against her skin. He had even smelled faintly of sandalwood - a welcoming scent. She could not help the direction of her mind. She imagined his hands, warm and eager, caressing her lips, a cheek, her neck ( here she shivered), perhaps even moving to her breast where he would grip gently, worshiping the flesh as his mouth, hot and hungry and undeniable, found its way to the slight curve of her neck. Would he be rough on her tender flesh here? She wondered if his desire to mark her there, where the skin was most impressionable, would be overwhelming to him. Perhaps he would bite hard enough to leave imprints. Where would he wish to touch her? Perhaps he would slide her body up against the dungeon walls, imprisoning her between a hard place and his body. Would he lift her, hands pressed on her ass and hitching up her school robes, or would he have ripped them off like the flimsy, obscuring fabric that it was? Then again, maybe he preferred the his desk, where he could climb on top of her, like an animal, like a man and his lover, as her body trembled under his presence. Perhaps, she mused, he too might even tremble. How wonderful that would be, to see him, the untouchable stoic, squirming. Her face grew red and she felt an uncomfortable wetness form between her legs as a graphic image of her musings played out in her mind's eye. Oh Merlin, she was having cliche' naughty school girl fantasies. As Hermione was mentally berating herself for being utterly trite she completely missed Severus's quill twitch as his nostrils flared. He arched an eyebrow and took a surreptitious glance in Hermione's direction. She appeared to be thinking about something; he could tell by the way she furrowed her brow and bit her long-suffering bottom lip between her teeth. He wondered, a bit jealously, what it was that was causing such a . . . reaction in her. Certainly he would recognize that faint smell anywhere. He was just about to make a comment, though as to what even he wasn't sure, when there was a slow rap at the door. Severus rolled his eyes, pleading heavenward that it was not the Headmaster. "Enter." The door silently opened. A lone figure, weather-worn and sickly, appeared in the doorway. His hair was graying more than usual, and his clothes looked even more patch-work than usual. At least, previously, he had given some attentions to his appearance. Not his hair was a mess of untamed locks that grew long enough to almost cover his eyes - and what eyes they tried to shadow. Haunted was the only word to accurately describe the shadows that traipsed passed, like clouds across the moon. "Lupin," Snape sneered and stood from his desk. Ah, how could he have forgotten? It was that time of the month. "Severus," replied the werewolf politely. He belatedly looked around the room and noticed Hermione sitting in front of a cauldron. He took a rather large breath of air and frowned, quickly looking between the girl and Snape. "Ah, Hermione. How are you doing?" "I'm fine, Professor Lupin. How are you feeling?" Hermione smiled. She had always been fond of the man. "I've been better, I'm afraid." Snape narrowed his eyes at the sign of familiarity between his student and his co-worker. "I agree, Lupin," said Snape with a glint of cruelty in his eyes. "I daresay you look positively . . . feral." Lupin paled and chuckled awkwardly. Without his usual amount of flair Snape turned and went into his office to gather the finished Wolfsbane potion. Hermione quickly added the last ingredient to her potion and put it on a simmer with her wand before getting up and walking to Remus. "I'm sorry he said that," she said quietly, looking with compassion at the bedraggled man. Remus chuckled. "Oh, don't apologize for him Hermione. He has his reasons." He gave the girl another funny look and sniffed, before bringing up a hand to rub his tired eyes. "How has Harry been, if you don't mind my asking?" Hermione bit her bottom lip. "I don't know. Sometimes he's okay and sometimes he's . . . well he's not. There's only so much we can do for him." She turned her eyes to the man before her. "Perhaps you could see him more, Professor? I know he enjoys your classes. He always looks a little bit better before we go to them." Remus looked pained and weary to such an extent that Hermione felt her heart tighten at the sight of it. Ah, she thought, this is helplessness. It always had amused her, as a child, to name emotions and ideas when she saw them personified in people. Now that she was an older, it was an automatic response that often left her feeling disquieted. "I would like to, Hermione, I would," he said slowly, measuring each word. "It's just that I . . . I can't. I - he, that is . . . his eyes are so much like -" "Here's your potion," interrupted Severus as he slinked from his office, goblet in hand. He handed it to Remus who quickly drank it, grimacing. "Tastes as bad as usual," he said, handing the goblet back. "Forgive me for not slaving away to make it more palatable to your expensive tastes," snarked the potions master. Remus, however, only sighed and thanked him. He wished them both a goodbye, though he found he couldn't quite look Hermione in the eye. Within a minute he was out the door in such a haste it was a wonder he had ever been there in the first place. "Miss Granger," Severus snapped, causing the girl to jump and gaze at him wide-eyed. "You have a potion to be monitoring." "Yes sir," she replied and scurried back to her cauldron. -.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.- "Will you just move the fucking chess piece, please?" Harry was raising a delicate eyebrow to Ron, as if figuring the intimidation technique would send his opponent into making a disastrous move. If anything, however, it only made Ron look a little sick. "Blimey, Harry," he shuddered. "You look like Snape when you do that." Harry lightly lifted his glasses with his hand and rubbed his eyes with the other. "I'm not sure if that's the biggest insult you've ever said to me. At least my hair isn't weighed down by its own grease. See?" He pointed to the mop of mess on his head. "It goes out at crazy angles." Ron gave him a small grin before turning his attention to the board. He still wasn't making a move. "At this rate, I should have been having sex every night or early morning, but noooo, Voldy-poo fucked that up for me," groused Harry. Ron moved his hand over a piece, as if he was about to make a move, but then he immediately retracted it and looked up to Harry, coughing. "Voldy. . . poo?" Then, a few minutes later. "And sex? With who?" A few more seconds later. "With Voldy-poo?!" Harry rolled his eyes. "What? I thought he'd warm up to me and give up the prophesy-vendetta if I had a term of endearment for him, but it only made him shudder and leave. Mighty quickly." Harry paused, considering. "I think he thought I had a crush on him or something." Ron didn't know what to say to that, really. He couldn't tell if Harry was being serious or not. In years past he might have carried the joke, but Harry was moody lately. Sometimes it was better to just leave well enough alone. With that in mind he grabbed a pawn and snagged one of Harry's that was getting a bit too close for comfort to his rook. "Hey, I couldn't help it if that's what Aunt Petunia sometimes calls Dudley." "Heh, Dudders," said Ron, making a drool face. "Hey," he said, lighting up as he did when an idea of particular worth strikes him. "Maybe Dudders and Voldy-poo will start seeing each other and leave you alone." "Hah," said Harry. He knocked over one of Ron's pawns with his knight. "That would be the day. I'm not too sure Dudi-kins could tolerate that though. Who knows what Voldemort would do, like, tie him up or spank him..." Harry paused. "I don't think I like where this is going." Ron grimaced. "I don't know," said Harry. "I normally don't think about people. And sex. They never mix in my head." Hermione chose that moment to pop up at Harry's side, dropping her rather heavy and worn bag at his feet. "We talked about sex with animals, Harry," she said. " And we decided it was a no-no." She plopped down onto the floor, making herself eye-level with the pieces. "Very funny," said Harry with a faint trace of amusement that could be seen in the crinkling of his eyes, if one looked closely. "Want to watch is play a bit of chess, Hermione?" said Ron as he moved a knight out of danger from Harry's queen. "Don't you two have homework to do?" said Hermione with a particularly pointed glare in Harry's direction. Harry rolled his eyes. He was doing that a lot lately. "I have been working, and now I have a headache, so I'm relieving stress." His bishop literally stomped on Ron's knight. "See? This is relaxing." Ron blinked. "Bloody hell . . ." Hermione put her hand on her hips. "It's not good for you to ignore your lectures, Harry. Especially Defense." She mellowed a bit. "Speaking of which. . ." "I didn't ignore," said Harry. "Draco threw that paper airplane with a doodle of me being hexed by kittens." Ron was perplexed. "Kittens? Is that inspiring fear?" Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Boys, so immature." She sure was a judgmental little thing. Ron took another of Harry's pawns. Hermione tried again. "Harry. . ." "Hey!" said Harry, indignant. "I liked that one pawn. He liked beating your pieces senseless. It empowered him." "Harry!" she was practically shouting, but the results were worth it. She had both of their attentions. "I saw Professor Lupin just now." Harry's hand was hovering over a pawn, about to make another move when it stopped, mid motion. His face smoothly relaxed into a blank stare. "Oh? How is he?" The image of nonchalance. Hermione ticked it off the emotion checklist in her head. "Bad would be an understatement." Ron jumped in. "He's been bad for awhile now." "Yes," agreed Hermione. "Ever since Siri. . ." And at once she was mortified and afraid, her eyes dropping to her hands. She crinkled her face into a visible apology. Ron kept his eyes firmly on the chessboard. "Yeah, I've noti-" Harry took in a soft breath, the room quiet. He stared as Ron started to fiddle with his hands, pointedly not looking in Hermione's direction somewhere to the side. He thought he might have heard her shift her weight onto another foot, the robes starchiness making sounds, but only barely registered it. He momentarily looked to the fireplace, its soft cackling louder now by comparison to the emptiness of speech in the quite common room. 'And it's there that we last spoke, funny.' Finally, "did he say anything?" Hermione bit her bottom lip. "He was getting his potion from Professor Snape for his. . . you know. And he asked after you. He wanted to know how you're doing." She was quiet a moment, before blurting out, "He looked like he was about to cry." Ron just moved a chess piece. "Blimey. . ." he muttered. Harry immediately felt bitter. Of course, just like them to talk behind his back, fuss over him when they couldn't even take care of one another. Slightly hypocritical...but this was Remus, who barely could glance at him in class, even when he thought Harry wasn't looking. Harry had carefully set himself to a corner of the class, sitting nearly at the edge so he could put his head down and view Remus without him realizing he was being studied the entire time. Maybe it was because he looked like James, but that had never stopped him from looking affectionately at Harry before. No, there was once that Sirius said they almost looked related with all that dark hair and pale skin, and maybe it was why Remus never looked his way ."Did the great bat give him any trouble? You know what he's like, how he likes to provoke people." Right, pick on someone else, let them take the blame. Snape could rot for all he cared, and he was much easier, more real, than all the guilt Harry felt. Hermione was still chewing on her bottom lip. It was a surprise to many that it hadn't bled yet. "No, he was decent." She furrowed her eyes a bit, signaling the topic change. "I don't like to pry. . ." Ron snorted. "Shut. Up. Ronald." She turned to Harry. "But are you. . . have you been . . . are you okay?" Harry eloquently raised an eyebrow in her direction, though when he thought about it, it probably held a resemblance to the Malfoy air of pride, far too close for Harry to like, but too late to change. They had been bickering more than usual lately, though doodles of being clawed to death wasn't the most of it. "Yes, I'm fine, we're playing chess in the common room like normal students do." She still looked worried, and he'd be damned if Hermione thought he didn't catch how she tried to cover for Snape. How bad was Remus? He still smiled when working with the first years. The only time he really did. Of course Remus Lupin still smiled with the first years. In a lot of way he himself had never truly matured. He was a simpering child in the body of an adult monster who was still afraid of boggarts in the closet and under the bed. It was a release for him to be around younger children who reminded him of carefree days with Lily, James and, most of all, with Sirius She won't let you ignore her, she won't let you ignore her. Why can't I just ignore her? "Ron, did you go yet?" "I'm thinking," said Ron, his hand hovering over the queen. "You don't seem fine," said Hermione, quietly, barely above a whisper. The pity was unmistakable in her eyes. "Don't pity me, Hermione. Don't. You don't know it, you don't know what it feels like. I said I was fine, I'm fine. Dammit, Ron, just put your piece there and you can check me." Abruptly and callously he picked up a piece and slamed it down on the black square. "I'm going to bed." Harry turned robes swishing past him, lightly making contact with Hermione, too fast for her to touch his arm in comfort. Ron looked up suddenly, as if he had been in a trance this entire time. "Oh, nice going Hermione." Exasperated, she threw her arms up in the air. " Someone has to say something, Ron. He can't keep pretending- we can't keep pretending that we don't notice that everyone is hurt, and emotionally not stable!" She huffed, her eyes refocusing after realizing what she had said, but it was true. Every word was true. They were all unstable, to some extent. "Hermione, maybe you've been hitting the books too hard." He began to slowly put the chess pieces away in their perfectly segregated little nooks. "If Harry says he's fine then he's fine. Pushing him into talking when he doesn't want to isn't going to make him feel better." He gave Hermione a casual glance. "So how was detention with Snape?" "Professor Snape," she corrected automatically. Ron rolled his eyes. "I bet he kept you on your hands and knee's all day." Her eyes widened at the double entendre - did he . . .had he just?- No, he was still looking down, maybe a little red around the ears, but Ronald Weasley would not have made an attempt at innuendo. Ever. And what would Professor Snape to do her if she were on her hands and knees . . .a flush formed on her already pink cheeks from having fought with Harry. This. could. Not. Be. Hermione held her breath, not even noticing as Ron looked hesitantly up at her. "Cleaning cauldrons, right?" he prompted when she did not verbally respond. Hermione gave a shaky laugh. "Hah, no." Quickly, she waved her right hand, swapping away the mental image and shaking her head. "No, he actually proposed that I work under his tutelage. I'd work on the wolfsbane, and under him in general as an apprentice. See," she smiled, a small one." " He's not all that bad." Upon seeing Ron's face and rapidly forming indignation she amended, "not all of the time." "His apprentice?! You agreed to spend time with him? Willingly?!" He gave her a hard look. "Are you sure you're not imperio'd?" "Ron," she glared. "Think of the opportunity! Where else can I learn as much as what the Professor has to offer? And don't think I didn't hear that. And . . . please don't tell Harry yet. I have a feeling . . .that it won't go very well with him." She wrung her hands in her black robes, hoping Ron would allow this one concession. He could only be in denial for so long. Hermione sighed, giving the boys dormitories a fleeting glance. "Whatever are we going to do about him, Ron?" When Ron didn't answer, she implored, "This is serious! Maybe you should try talking to him, let him know you're there?" "What do you mean it won't end well? We have a prophesy saying that we'll win? Why else would Voldy-poo fear it so much?" Hermione didn't comment on the 'Voldy-poo.' Nor did she comment on his rash, mulish stubbornness. Perhaps it was all he had that kept him plodding along. "I say," said Ron. "We just leave him alone and let him work out his problems. Alone. You can't keep pushing people like you do." Hermione stood up and crossed her arms. "Fine, go on and pretend things are fine. Harry can't be so unstable and rash, so predicable. He'll stand no chance, Ron. We can't leave him like this, and I will make you all understand this, one way or another." She looked up, pleadingly. "Please, Ron, please talk to him." Ron glared. "If you want someone to talk to him so badly, you do it." Truth be told, Ron feared Harry when he was on the warpath. He seemed like a snake and a lion combined; he could pounce and tear, or he could flick away at someone's defenses until they were left with almost nothing. Ron didn't want that energy directed his way. Hermione opened her mouth, snapped it shut, then opened it again before her body was able to catch up to her mind's commands. "Perfect, Ron. Just perfect. Go and run, I'll deal with Harry on my own. But mark my words. . ." Yet, there was nothing to say. No idle threat would make it clear how upset she was that no one would do anything to move beyond their self-induced stupor. "Fine," she huffed. "Just fine." She left in the same mess of black robes that Harry had just moments before, so it seemed. Ron stared down at the open box of chess pieces, each lifeless and waiting to be picked up to resume their life, their game once more. Picking up the king, Ron eyed him closely, inspecting him, but for no reason. "Bugger," he mouthed as he tossed the toy back without care. a/n: Wow. We sure did go long with this one. Sorry for the ridiculous delay, our lives just are very hectic sometimes. We did talk about the story a lot, except most of the time it was trite fangirl screaming of how adorable we believe Severus/Hermione to be, or Draco/Harry. And then we come up with elaborate ways in which they can be together, none of them really plausible. People look at us strangely. Alas. We own nothing! Please Read and Review, we'd really love to hear feedback on what you think so far.