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MetroVampire & Rhosymedre

Part 16 - Jealousy Is All The Fun You Think They Had

Severus almost grinned with amusement at the sight of the rather vigourously deadheaded roses as he headed for Herbology; the Ball had been an ordeal but, on the whole, it could have been considerably worse. Hermione seemed to have suffered rather more than he had - but then, he had not been forced to dance with Hyacinth Hooch.

Lavender and Parvati had been quick to spread news that 'Hermione' was prepared to make the stuff that had improved her hair and skin and he had spent half the evening beseiged by what felt like most of the female students - it was an odd sensation, being sought out. Had he cared, he might have felt some pleasure in it; as it was, he decided to tolerate it on the basis that it seemed to confirm that no-one thought him to be anything other than Hermione. In truth, it would be tedious, churning out beauty potions whilst he was working on the ongoing series of experiments to discover what was involved in Longbottom's Miraculous Mind Mixer. Hermione had come up with the title in one of their less successful evenings - whilst they were cleaning the classroom of the detritus that had been the fallout from a rather spectacularly failed potion.

The Herbology class passed with its usual leisure, with little attention needed from Snape - the practical elements of Herbology were second nature to him, after years of tending to the rarer plant-based ingredients needed for Potions, and today's class mostly involved practicing pruning and grafting techniques; they had also had to create a fertilizer from a formula that Sprout had given them to follow. Longbottom, of course, had it perfectly mixed and spread before anyone else.

How, in the name of Merlin, could the boy recreate every last formula that Sprout produced and yet be such a complete buffoon in Potions classes?

The most interesting piece of news to come from the class was nothing to do with Herbology; it was a rumour that Hooch had finally fallen victim to her own rather energetic dancing style. Harry had been somewhat concerned that the next match - against Slytherin - would be called off. Snape hoped it would; cheering on Gryffindor would be seriously supererogatory on his part.

The rumour was true; Hermione found him after lunch, swooping down on him in the corridors with his heavy robes cloaking her.

"Miss Granger, I need a word with you." She spoke coldly, and the few students still around flinched and clearly wondered what the Potions Professor had in store for the Head Girl. They would have been surprised to find out that, in fact, all that was in store was an outpouring of barely suppressed panic. They had barely reached his dungeon rooms before she started to pace across the floor.

"Professor Hooch is ... incapacitated," she said, "apparently she tripped whilst dancing yesterday - I can't say I'm surprised - and Madam Pomfrey seems to believe it'll take a week or so to heal." She was almost snarling as she strode backwards and forwards. Snape leant back against the door, his arms folded. He had more or less got the hang of how to do that now, although he was a little alarmed at the attention that he seemed to garner from the boys around him when he did it. It wasn't as though he was showing any cleavage ...

"I can't believe it'll take a week to heal - whatever it is; even Harry's arm was restored overnight when that idiot Lockhart bungled a healing spell. It's got to be personal .. I don't know what I said to her yesterday, but she's doing this on purpose, I know -"

"Miss Granger." Snape cut across Hermione's mutterings. He was almost used to the idea of calling her by her first name now; her request some evenings ago hadn't been entirely unreasonable after all. All the same, this seemed to be a better way to get her attention - and it worked. She stopped pacing and whirled around.

"What?" she demanded, then sighed. "I'm sorry, what did you want to say, Professor?"

Snape just looked at her for a moment before speaking; he had rather preferred it when she forgot to be quite so polite. It was too peculiar to hear deference in his voice and see it in his stance.

"You're not making a great deal of sense, Miss Granger; do stop taking all this so personally - it's unlikely to be a great trauma. We did survive the Ball, after all." He paused, but she didn't appear to be in a frame of mind to take his particular brand of humour this afternoon. "Exactly what do you believe to be a personal attack? Professor Hooch's injury? That was simply something waiting to happen. And I rather doubt that Madam Pomfrey would hold back a person's healing simply to inconvenience me - she has too great a need of my potions for that. Can you be a little more ... well, detailed, perhaps?"

Hermione nodded at him. "I have to referee the next match - the Headmaster and Professor McGonagall believe that it would be counterproductive for the match to be called off, particularly since Gryffindor-Slytherin isn't the most amicable match. So, since Hooch can't referee -"

"You have to do it, as the only other qualified referee on the staff. What's the problem with that?" asked Snape, puzzled.

Hermione laughed, a low grating sound with no humour whatsoever in it, and more than a tinge of desperation. He wasn't even aware he was capable of such a sound. "Take your choice. No knowledge of Quidditch and no particular skill at flying."

"You're exaggerating, Hermione. You're the best friend of the Gryffindor Seeker and you've probably lost count of the number of matches you have attended in the past six years - you know more than you think you do. And you had flying lessons at least once a week for five years. Whilst you haven't had lessons since your OWLs -" Hermione interrupted him.

"Fine - I know the absolute basics and nowhere near enough to referee. All Harry wants is congratulations - the play-by-play and analysis he saves for Ron because he knows I couldn't care less" shouted Hermione, a vein jumping in her neck. Snape watched it, distracted. He'd never realised he did that. She took a deep breath, apparently calming down. "As for flying, just because I had lessons, it doesn't mean I'm particularly competent. I was unbelievably grateful to give up that particular form of torture as soon as I could."

Snape could feel another headache forming now. "At this rate," he muttered, "we're never going to get anywhere with the experiments. Very well, there isn't anything else for it. You're going to have to learn."

"In a week?!" replied Hermione, with all the incredulity that he felt expressed in her voice.

"That's all we have, I suggest we make the best of it. We'll practice this evening - the pitch is far enough from the castle for us to do so unobserved. Thankfully you're Head Girl so I should be able to get out without too many problems. Very well, nine o'clock at the pitch this evening. In the meantime, I suggest you read ..." Snape crossed to the bookcase and searched, then pulled out a slim volume, "this." He threw the book to Hermione who caught it easily and looked at it quizzically.

"The Bluffer's Guide to Quidditch"?" she read the title aloud.

"It'll teach you enough to be able to fake it, which is all we can hope for, I suspect."

Snape spent the afternoon mentally creating a lesson plan on flying - the accelerated course. He deliberately avoided calling a crash course; they had quite enough to deal with already without bringing superstition-fuelled self-fulfilling drama into the mixture. His distraction was obvious, as he sat in the library with his head buried in books. This wasn't an unusual place, or position, for Hermione and he was largely left alone. Only two Ravenclaws disturbed him, each slipping a note requesting some of his next batch of skincare potions.

By nine o'clock he was out on the pitch; night had fallen and he had sent a circle of fireballs into the air with a quick spell, shielding them so that they weren't obvious from the castle. He had cast a charm over the pitch as well, deflecting attention from it so that even if someone should glance from the winddows and see the illuminated area they would not remember it long enough to investigate. It wouldn't fool Dumbledore, but it should see off every other member of the staff and student body.

Hermione appeared, a minute or so late, still clutching 'The Bluffer's Guide to Quidditch'. The panic clearly hadn't entirely subsided, as her first words indicated.

"There are over seven hundred fouls, how on earth am I going to learn all of those in week?" she wailed; it wasn't a tone that suited his voice at all.

"You aren't," said Snape sharply. "There is no published list of them, and not even Hooch knows all seven hundred; I certainly don't and you can guarantee that none of the players on the team do either. Just learn the more obvious ones - the book has illustrated examples, so you should be able to follow them - and mostly watch that they don't go over the boundaries, don't grab each other and don't use their wands. That last one deals with ninety percent of fouls anyway."

Hermione looked slightly more mollified at that piece of news, but was still clearly worried.

"That's still seventy fouls ..."

Snape shook his head, staring into the sky as he gathered his patience. He would dearly love to lose his temper but, on the whole, he thought this would be over and done with faster if he kept a rein on it.

"Miss Granger," he couldn't quite keep the sharpness from his tone though, and she snapped her head round, "as long as you can recognise blagging, blatching, blurting, bumphing, cobbing, flacking, haversacking, quafflepacking, snitchnip and stooging, you'll be fine. Learn those and you'll know more than those infants are capable of memorising or performing. And do remember that they don't know they are being referreed by Hermione Granger. I have worked long and hard to develop my reputation and you - so far - have not managed to destroy it. I suggest you use it to your advantage."

Hermione had flicked her way to and fro through the book as he listed the ten most common fouls - apparently trying to find each as he mentioned it. Now she looked up, and it was clear from her expression that she had finally understood that the teams were unlikely to test the Potions Master as referee; even the Slytherins were unlikely to try anything - more than once.

"Now - flying. Get on the broomstick and take a circuit of the pitch so I can see what we're dealing with."

Hermione handed the book to him and went to stand by the broomstick he had brought out for her - his Nimbus 1700. Not the most contemporary model, but it suited his purposes. He heard her mutter "Up" reluctantly and then look startled when the broom leapt to her hand. She got onto it gingerly, pushed off and looped around the field - slowly at first, then with increasing speed.

She landed in front of him a little later, catching the broomstick before it fell to the floor.

"Miss Granger, perhaps if you were a little less of a perfectionist, you might find life rather less traumatic. I would not say that you had any obvious problems in flying - your technique needs some work before the match but you are clearly not the total incompetent you pretend to be."

Hermione had looked puzzled as she landed, and spoke now slowly in reply. "I think ... I think your body has something to do with it. I've never flown like that in my life; it's as though my body knew what to do - I certainly wasn't dictating that flight."

Snape thought for a moment, then nodded.