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MetroVampire & Rhosymedre

Part 11 - Terms Of Engagement

"Welcome to my life, Professor Snape."

The words came unbidden, piqued out of her by his unspoken assumption that there would be more to it than that. The uncomfortable awareness that she was preparing to defend a situation that she, herself, had often wished to be different, was pushed down to join the ever growing list of things that she didn't want to think about just now.

Things like her new-found knowledge of Professor Snape's body, for instance, and its unexpected entertainment potential. Things like the morning that she had spent alternately trying to decipher his cryptic Transfiguration notes - abandoned when she realised that, even had she had her mind fully on the task, it would be impossible without a decoding charm - and leafing through one of his books, telling herself she was reading and not dreading the coming meeting.

Things like trying to avoid the thought that he might have carried out a similar "investigation" of her body. Like telling herself that the idea was disgusting. And being appalled to realise that she not only wondered if he had done it, but whether or not he had liked it.

She wondered if he would be able to tell what had happened in some way that she didn't know about.

So, when he came rushing into the room to collapse in a chair in front of the fire, and immediately question her on her social life, she gratefully seized the opportunity to take the resulting spark of irritation, and dump enough panic on to it to turn it into fully-fledged bad temper.

Welcome to my life, indeed.

"No doubt you were expecting to spend your time sitting around with the girls, talking about clothes and make-up and boys. I'm sorry to disappoint you, Professor, but I imagine that you know more about the boys in Gryffindor House than I do."

She noted absently that that little speech could have been delivered by the genuine article. She was finding that hitting his tone was disconcertingly easy. Maybe she had been waiting all along for this chance to get in touch with her own personal inner Snape.

That was as maybe, she told herself sternly. It was the outer Snape that was the current problem. Some focus might be appropriate.

Snape, himself, seemed slightly taken aback at her reply, although well on the way to a recovery.

"Miss Granger," he said deliberately, with a faint undertone of rapidly failing patience, "I wish you would control your propensity to overreact. I can assure you that my desire to 'sit around with the girls', as you so eloquently put it, is extremely small. I simply do not desire for our situation to be revealed as a result of an error that could be easily avoided."

She took a deep breath. He was right about her reaction; it was out of proportion, and more importantly, out of character. It was not impossible to use the words "Snape" and "overreaction" in the same sentence, she reflected, but you didn't get the chance very often. This was not one of those occasions. She took another breath.

"You're right, Professor. I apologise."

He didn't respond immediately, and she was aware of him studying her intently. Instantly, she was self-conscious again. She had been careful about dressing, recalling that she had never seen him in less than full robes, not even at the weekend. Not even in the summer.

"What's the matter?" she asked, trying not to sound defensive again. "Is there something wrong with what I'm wearing?"

She could have sworn that he started at that, but, if he did, he controlled it too quickly for her to be entirely certain.

"No, your dress is satisfactory," he stated. "Although, I do not recall that I normally have the top buttons of my jacket undone."

She was too busy fastening them to register that his response to the slip had been unexpectedly mild.

"I'm sorry," she excused herself. "I don't really like things tight around my throat. And anyway, it's not as if anyone really knows what you wear in private. I mean, you don't really have guests...." She trailed off, as her brain caught up with what her mouth was saying. She really was going to have to watch that.

"Thank you, Miss Granger," came the smooth reply. "I believe you have now adequately revenged yourself for my earlier careless remarks about your lack of meal time company. Shall we move on?"

Yes, let's do.

She ran a hand through her hair, trying not to obviously wince at the sticky residue left there by the soap. Which led her to her first careful look at 'her' appearance. The choice of clothes was acceptable, although he'd managed to select the only sweater that she really didn't like. The hair was clean, but still a little damp around the edges. Clearly, he'd managed to wash her hair, but not felt able to tackle drying it.

"As you can see, I have identified the uses of some of the items in your bathroom," he noted, clearly aware of her scrutiny. She nodded. He'd made a reasonable attempt at her hair, although he still hadn't got as far as make up. Ah well, she thought resignedly, one step at a time. "However," he continued, "I do have to question your choice of preparations."

She nearly choked audibly.

This? From the man who washes his hair in green household soap?

"I beg your pardon?" she managed faintly.

"The ingredients in the preparations that you use. You could make far more effective ones yourself. You should certainly possess that knowledge. And the skill."

This time a strangled noise did emerge.

Excuse me, Professor Snape, but I thought that if you didn't mind I might pop by the dungeons one evening and whip up a batch of moisturiser. All right if I help myself to ingredients is it? I can't imagine why I never thought of that before.

"I... um... never really thought that you would be very enthusiastic about using the classroom to make cosmetics." She picked her words very carefully from a selection which included, amongst others, would have had apoplexy at the mere suggestion. On the other hand, if it made him take care of her body ... she shrugged. "But, if you want to, be my guest. Just so long as no one notices."

He just nodded briefly at that. And the concept of Professor Snape making her cosmetics became yet another thought filed under To Deal With Later.

"Well?" his voice broke into her musing. "If we've completely covered health and beauty, could we continue?"

She pulled herself together. What next? A glance around the room brought her attention to the table, and thence to the question of work itself.

"Well, there's my notes. I simply can't read them and I have tried. And whilst we're on the subject - I know its a side issue, but can I clear some space to keep my things in here?"

He simply raised an eyebrow.

"You're obviously working on some things," she said defensively. "I didn't want to move anything if it was organised in a certain way." She shrugged again. "And some of it might have been private."

He looked at her again, more consideringly this time.

"A fair point, Miss Granger. I will clear some space for you. In the meantime, might I suggest that you make some tea, and then tell me what you think is the solution to the legibility of your notes."

She blinked. The offer of tea, natural in her own rooms, had just not occurred to her here. Yet another thing to remember. She moved towards the stove wondering where the tea things were.

"I see you've been looking at the books already." His voice made her jump again. She was about to excuse herself again, when he waved irritably at her. "Miss Granger, unpleasant as the thought no doubt is, you are going to have to treat these rooms as if they were yours. That means using the things in them, especially the books. The tea things you're looking for are in the dresser," he added. "If you will excuse me, I think that I shall also make some willowbark and valerian infusion. I fear this could be a long afternoon."

It was a long afternoon, but in the end it was nowhere near as fraught as it could have been. Somewhere between warming the pot and pouring the dark liquid into mugs, Hermione decided that only way to get through this was to face the fact that she was going to be Snape for at least six months. They might find a solution more quickly, but she had to assume that they wouldn't. Which put them both into the curious situation of intimacy without knowledge; a lot of personal facts, without any real understanding of the individual behind them. It was disconcerting, to say the least, but once you accepted that proposition as a given, the rest became simple logistics.

That conclusion reached, she carried the tea over to where Snape was sitting, drinking his infusion. He cast a slightly wary eye over the contents of the mug and then put it down on the table beside him, waiting for her to begin. She marshalled her thoughts, trying to shake off the feeling that he was expecting some kind of class presentation.

"I think that we can deal with the handwriting by using Mea Scripta charms."

And so they started.

Snape actually required some convincing that the writing was an issue at all, until she pointed out that at least three of her teachers - of whom he was one - had a fondness for in-class tests.

"Ron is one thing, but you can hardly hand in an essay to Professor McGonagall written like that. She'll know at once that its not my writing."

Taking his silence, and slightly raised hand, as some kind of agreement, she pulled out her... his... wand and then paused, remembering the sluggish, alien feel of it. He was obviously waiting for her to do something, one eyebrow quirked.

"Lapse of memory, Miss Granger?" he enquired.

She glared without thinking.

"If I might have my own wand back...," she asked, with false sweetness. Filtered through his vocal cords, the effect was remarkable. A sort of silky insincerity, underpinned with bass notes of sneer. A classic Snape tone. So that's how you do it, she thought triumphantly, fighting the urge to grin at him.

Wordlessly, he handed her the wand. She enchanted a good supply of quills, so that they would reproduce her handwriting when used, and put them aside on the table. It occurred to her to wonder exactly what would happen if they were still in this position when the NEWTs came around, and all the anti-cheating charms were in place. The thought was sent off to join all the others in the To Deal With Later part of her mind.

"Now you," she said.

"Me? Miss Granger, I hardly think that you are going to need to reproduce my writing. I shall continue to mark papers and write reports."

She wondered if he was being deliberately obtuse.

"And what if I'm asked to write passes for people? Or class excusals? Or a note for one of the other teachers."

With an air of sulk that Pavarti herself would have been proud of, he stood, picked up his wand and muttered the spell over another pile of quills on the table. Hermione picked up one and experimentally wrote something on a scrap of parchment. The words appeared in Snape's barely legible scrawl. It wouldn't fool the goblins at Gringotts by any stretch of the imagination, but it would get her through the next few months. She caught his look of disapproval again.

"Satisfied?" he asked, rather mutinously. "I'm not completely incompetent with a wand, you know."

Sulking Snape was considerably easier to deal with then sarcastic Snape, Hermione decided. She simply ignored him.

"You'll need to do that to some chalk as well. I can't keep getting classes to copy out of textbooks."

However, his mention of wands did lead rather neatly on to something else.

"I think we need to sort out Transfiguration as well."

His expression did not get significantly more co-operative.

"Transfiguration is one of my best classes," she explained patiently. "Professor McGonagall is going to be the first to notice if something is wrong."

He shrugged then, seeming to resign himself to the need to do this. She half expected him to say whatever, in that dismissive tone that was Lavender's favourite response at the moment.

"Shall we try whatever you were doing in class last time?" she suggested.

She handed him her wand and watched as he managed, on the third attempt, to turn an ebony and silver box into a hamster. He did as well as most of her class, she thought. But she knew, arrogant as it may be, that she would have succeeded first time. She absently prevented the hamster from chewing on the end of a parchment.

"What happens when you turn it back?" she asked, trying to observe objectively, rather than focus on the fact that the man could ruin her Transfiguration marks.

He performed the reverse transfiguration. She was left coralling a small black hamster with an intricate coat pattern, not unlike silver filigree.

"I don't think that you've quite got the angle of the wand right," she said consideringly. "It needs to be more sharply raked. Then the arc of the movement is easier to control."

The second time was better, and now she was convinced that it was something to do with his wand control, not his ability to focus on the desired result. She shook her head, as she caught the box, now scuttling towards the edge of the table on four little rodent feet, and put it on its lid. The feet waggled in the air, trying to find the floor.

"No, it needs to be more like this...." Without thinking, she reached to cover his hand with hers, intending to demonstrate the action. She had just barely touched his skin, when he pulled sharply away.

"Miss Granger, I understand the theory, I simply need to refresh my skills. And I would remind you that circumstances are forcing me to use a wand that is not my own."

She hoped the flush wasn't too obvious. Swallowing, she forced herself back to the practicalities. Wands, for example. Well, she had managed some simple spells with his, but there was no doubt that casting was significantly more difficult. She thought. Maybe there was a way around this. They couldn't simply exchange wands. Hers was willow and unicorn tail hair, nine inches. His was ebony, maybe twelve inches and she had no idea what the core was. Longer, darker, heavier; it would be the first wrong thing that anyone noticed. However...

"Professor, could I have my wand for a moment please?" She held them both, balancing, comparing.

There was no reason why this shouldn't work. It was barely a transformation; more a glamour, a false seeming.

She put her wand on the table, angled Snape's carefully, concentrated and cast. The feeling was sluggish again, as if she was fighting a great weight of inertia, but finally the spell was finished. On the table was a twelve inch, ebony wand, to all appearances identical to the one she was holding. Exchanging it for the one on the table, she hefted it experimentally. It felt right. It felt like hers. She picked up the box with its still waving feet. One deft movement later, and it was foot free. Relief flooded her. She cast at the other ebony wand. This was much easier. Moments later, an nine inch, willow wand was laying there. She picked it up and handed it to Snape.

"Your wand, Professor." She hoped that she didn't sound as smug as she felt.

"An ingenious solution," he conceded, in a rather grudging tone. She was inclined to take that as gushing praise under the circumstances. "Now that has been resolved, shall we move on to other things?"

She looked at the ebony box pointedly. He sighed and raised the wand, and she thought she detected an element of reluctance in the gesture. Again, he angled it in a way that didn't seem quite right to her.

This time, the box remained stubbornly a box. Granted, it was a furry box, but it was, unmistakably, still a box.

So much for the 'not my wand' theory, Professor.

It also went some way to explaining his prejudice against foolish wand waving.

The knowledge that it was her classes that would be affected, and a certain recognition that that it had to be very difficult for him to be forced to reveal his lack of skill in this way, prevented from her feeling as much pleasure in his discomfiture as she might otherwise have done.

She also couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't sound offensive or patronising.

"Well, you'll just have to practice," was her eventual, curt response, and then, with an attempt to change the subject that she hoped wasn't too obvious, "so, what do I need to know about next week's lessons?"

He returned to his seat and steepled his fingers. As he began to take her through his teaching schedule, she thought that his posture relaxed fractionally and his voice became easier. By the time he had finished she had a clear idea, not only of the subject matter to be covered, but the strengths and weaknesses of each group, the students to watch carefully - other than Neville Longbottom - the pairings to avoid and the obvious dangers.

"The concealed dangers will have to be dealt with on a case by case basis," was his final remark.

He was, she decided, an acute observer of others, even if he did tend to use those observations to terrorise rather than support. In return, she gave him as full a description of Gryffindor dynamics as she could manage; both in-house and external.

"The most important thing to remember is that we hate Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle and they hate us back. Ron and Harry will never pass up an opportunity to get at them. You have to at least try to stop them. Don't worry if you don't manage to. I hardly ever do."

As far as the Project to find The Cure - as she had begun to think of it - was concerned, it was clear that Snape was taking charge of it. He informed her that whilst he conducted tests on the remains of Neville's Accident, she could take the list of the ingredients on the shelf - of course they would be meticulously catalogued, she thought - and start to organise them into impossible, unlikely and potential causes. When she protested at the sheer number of combinations he glared, and told her to approach it methodically.

"Begin with the assumption that the simplest answer is the most likely. So, look at individual ingredients. Then combinations of two, then three and so on."

"Is that a valid assumption, though?" she couldn't help asking.

He just shrugged.

"Some parameters for the task have to be assumed. Do you have a better suggestion?"

She didn't. He moved over to the bookshelves and walked along them, removing volumes here and there and placing them in a pile. When he had accumulated about a dozen, he turned to her.

"There may be some information in these texts that can help us. I suggest that we both look through them."

They continued talking.

"Is that it?" she asked eventually, feeling a little shell shocked after discussions that seemed to cover everything from Slytherin House politics to Weasley/Potter avoidance tactics.

"Probably not," he admitted. "However, I would have thought that it would be a little depressing if one's entire life could be explained in the course of an afternoon." The touch of dry humour surprised her, and then reminded her that in all their conversations, one subject had been conspicuously absent

Voldemort.

Now, there was a thought that belonged in the Don't Want To Think About Ever category. However, the fact remained that her chances of being summoned were now significantly higher. She wondered whether she should say anything now, or wait for Snape to bring the subject up. In the end, she decided that his instruction to 'find me immediately' still held good, and he would no doubt tell her if there was anything else she needed to know. Part of her was aware that this was merely staving off the inevitable, but another part of her told her firmly that she had quite enough to deal with in what she knew was about about to happen, without adding what she feared to it as well.

"Actually, there is one last thing, Miss Granger." His voice broke into her thoughts as if he had read her mind. Involuntarily, she tensed. "Do you play chess with Mr Weasley very frequently?"

She almost sagged with relief.

"A couple of times a week, I suppose. I usually lose."