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This fic is also to be found at the DarkSarcasm Yahoo group - if you want e mail notification of updates, this is the best way to get them. The group can be found at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/darksarcasm. The fic will have 40 episodes in total and new episodes will be posted late every Saturday night UK time. Please do not ask for more frequent updates. The authors have lives and other fics to write :)

MetroVampire & Rhosymedre

Part 17 - Whose Side Are You On, Ref ..?

If anyone had noticed a marked drop off in the nocturnal excursions of Professor Snape, no one had seen fit to mention anything about it. Hermione had, from time to time, spared a passing concern for Argus Filch, who seemed to regard himself and Snape as the last bastion of defence against wholesale student anarchy in the corridors. She had even gone so far as to make a mental plan to take some midnight trips just to allay any suspicions that he might have. However, adding flying lessons to her already nerve-rackingly crowded timetable, simply meant that her nights were passed in as lengthy a period of unconsciousness as she could achieve. In retrospect, her third year experiences with the time-turner were beginning to look positively restful.

The combination of Snape's muscle memory, and a broom that was rather more sharply engineered and maintained that the average school example, was making the current ordeal a little less horrendous than she had feared. Snape was not particularly patient with her, but he did have a knack of explaining the physical movements, and his body was rather more adept at putting those commands into practice than her usual one was. Which was fair enough when you thought about it; he ought to know what his own body was capable of.

There were even moments when she caught a glimpse of the attraction that flying had for Harry and Ron. Moments. However, they were far outweighed by the times of gut-wrenching panic when she realised that she would not only have to deal with flying, but also with paying attention to fourteen people, all moving in different directions; at least half of whom would be hell bent on inflicting surreptitious damage on any and all of the other half.

At the moment she was lying in the bath, soaking her weary body, and trying to absorb as much of The Bluffer's Guide to Quidditch as she could before she was forced to give in and go to bed. She was now adjusting to the long, lean masculine body stretched in the water in front of her, and the business of looking after it no longer caused her any embarrassment. She hadn't even cut herself shaving in a while.

And as for the other parts of the body.... Snape woke up with an erection surprisingly often, she had discovered. Or at least she assumed it was surprisingly often. It was not, she recognised wryly, as if she had extensive experience upon which to base a comparison. And she had discovered that, whilst a cold shower was undoubtedly effective, the alternative manner of dealing with it was considerably more pleasant, not to mention nowhere near as traumatic on the body first thing in the morning.

She shifted in the water a little, conscious that it was beginning to get cold. She closed the book, and hauled herself upright, dripping. She summoned a towel and began to dry herself absently, wondering if there was any chance that this next match would be the one where Harry decided to emulate Roderick Plumpton and catch the Snitch in three and a half seconds. Positives: Harry would get into the history books - again - and she would be spared the prospect of making a fool of herself - and Snape, she was forced to concede. Negatives: no, she couldn't think of any just at the moment. Which meant that she was unlikely to be that lucky.

She rubbed off the last of the water, and tossed the towel over the side of the bath for the house-elves to deal with. Naked, she padded through into the bedroom, muscles still aching enough for her to be aware of them. It was because she didn't relax, Snape said.

If you would just relax, Miss Granger, you would find that your body will naturally adjust your centre of gravity to the movement. If you persist in rigidly fighting against it, you will fall off.

The pain in her left hip testified to the accuracy of that statement. Not to mention the fact that he was sufficiently irritated to be calling her Miss Granger again. Yawning, she dug out a clean pair of boxers, pulled them on, and slid into bed, telling herself that she would get through this.

Hermione woke on the Saturday morning of the match, however, to find that the greater part of her confidence had evaporated. Too agitated to do anything other than dress and down a cup of black coffee - a beverage that she was taking to with some enthusiasm - she stalked to the potions room and paced the classroom waiting for Snape to arrive. When he finally walked through the door, the expression on his face did not encourage her to share her apprehensions. She guessed that he had been thoroughly victim to the Potter/Weasley pre-match hype, involving off-key chanting, inarticulate shouting and a truly frightening level of anti-Slytherin sentiment. Even she, as a Gryffindor, found it a little much. She could only speculate on the reaction of the Slytherin Head of House.

The book bag landed on a workbench with a thump that spoke volumes, and Snape strode over to the cauldrons left standing overnight.

"Shall we get started?" he said, in a tone that was plainly not a request.

Hermione just nodded. Initially, she was grateful to have something to do, hoping that it would take her mind off the upcoming match. However, it didn't. In fact, it seemed that there was irritatingly little for her to do that morning, so she was reduced to pacing restlessly running rules and fouls through her head. She was beginning to feel a headache starting, and a nagging craving for something sweet to eat. She didn't think that she would get away with a trip to the kitchens though. Her stomach tightened and her pacing became more intense.

Matters came to a head, when she was playing out a double eight loop in her mind. Snape's voice stopped her train of thought abruptly.

"For the love of Merlin, Miss Granger, do stop wandering about."

She stopped.

"I'm sorry."

He sighed with a long-suffering air.

"Is this about this afternoon?"

She nodded, trying not to bite her lip.

"I assure that you are making far too much of a drama out of this. Your flying skills will be adequate. I have no doubt that your grasp of the rules is sufficient. There are more important things to concentrate on."

Well, that was easy for him to say. He wasn't the one going out there.

"I can't concentrate on anything else," she said, trying not to sound as pitiful as she felt. By the look on his face she failed rather badly.

"Well then," he said impatiently, "if you can't keep still, kindly go somewhere else to panic before you knock something over and further complicate Mr Longbottom's sole Potions achievement."

Where was she supposed to go? She could only return to his rooms, and she didn't think that that was likely to calm her overmuch. She voiced the thought before it occurred to her that he really wasn't going to care.

He didn't.

"Miss Granger, how am I supposed to know what it will take to calm you down?" He sighed. "What do you want to do?"

She thought.

Eat ice cream. Specific ice cream. Haagen-Dazs ice cream. At the Haagen-Dazs cafe in Leicester Square. Hardly a practicable idea.

Snape did not seem to agree.

"Well, if that's what you want to do, just get on with it."

"Excuse me, Professor," she said sharply, "but just how exactly am I supposed to do that?" She glared at him. The situation was bad enough without him mocking her. "It's not as if I can just apparate there, can I?"

He looked at her steadily.

He couldn't seriously be suggesting that she....

"I assume that you have studied the technique."

He bloody well was.

"Yes," she said cautiously, "but I don't have a licence."

"No," he said with exaggerated patience, "but I do. And if it will get you out from under my feet for the rest of the morning, and get you to cease these annoying attacks of hysterics, it will be a small price to pay."

She was speechless.

"Follow the path towards Hogsmeade. When you cross the castle boundary strike left off the path and you will find somewhere concealed enough from which to apparate. There is some Muggle money in the top left hand drawer of the dresser in the sitting room." His eyebrow arched as she struggled to control her features. "I am not bound to the castle by an enchantment, Miss Granger. Even I visit the outside world from time to time. If you are not back by two o'clock I shall inform the Headmaster and do attempt not to splinch yourself whilst you are using my body. Now, get out of my sight."

She didn't need to be told twice. She fled back into his rooms, hastily searching the dresser for the money. To her surprise there was a considerable supply. She pulled out some notes and small change. Honesty compelled her to leave a scribbled note of the amount, so that she could repay him later. She was about to leave when it occurred to her that Diagon Alley was one thing, but she could hardly wander about Leicester Square in full black wizarding robes. She supposed that meant she needed to transfigure something. She went into the bedroom, and began to look through the chest of drawers. Given that Snape was pretty predictable in his habits of dress, she had seen no need to investigate further than finding a reasonable supply of everyday clothes. She doubted she'd find anything much in his other clothes but she might as well look.

The first drawer she sorted through contained a fairly standard collection of masculine odds and ends. Nothing that was of very much help to her in the circumstances. With little hope she pulled open the drawer underneath it - and was rendered speechless for the second time that day.

With careful, not to mention disbelieving, hands she pulled out a significant quantity of black denim. She held it up, mind still not quite accepting what her eyes were telling her. Jeans. Narrow cut, button front fly, label stamped with three numbers - five, oh, one. Very nice. She shook her head.

Well, well, well, Professor. Yet more surprises.

She threw them on to the bed. Another dive into the drawer brought her in contact with something very soft. She tugged at it, to reveal a Muggle sweater; black, naturally, and cashmere - also naturally, she thought with a wry twist.

Well, that resolved the issue of what she was going to wear. Quickly she stripped off her robes to replace them with jeans and the sweater. The Muggle clothes outlined her body in ways that the robes definitely didn't. Nice, she thought again. Very nice. A search through the wardrobe revealed a well cut leather jacket - black, of course. Hermione checked the label. Armani. No one could accuse Professor Snape of not having a eye for quality, she thought wickedly. She wondered what else was hidden in his closets; the sudden insight into his taste for good Muggle clothes had inexplicably lifted her heart.

Forcing her face into a scowl, she wrapped his cloak around her to disguise the clothes, and headed out of the castle.

Half an hour later, she was sitting in Leicester Square happily eating her way through a three scoop sundae made up of Belgian Chocolate, Pralines and Cream and Macadamia Nut Brittle topped off with hot chocolate fudge sauce, whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles. As she thought it through, she realised that although he had been foully rude about it, he had not only given her permission to apparate using his licence - which could get him into serious trouble if anyone found out about it - he had effectively paid for her to be there. At that moment - at a safe distance from Hogwarts - she could almost feel that she liked the man.

Back at Hogwarts, sitting on Snape's broom in the middle of the Quidditch pitch, watching Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy - the respective House Seekers and Team Captains - squaring off at each other, Hermione felt considerably less charitable towards him. She knew that he would be up in the Gryffindor seats somewhere; the only vague satisfaction that she could feel was that he would have to cheer on Gryffindor, no doubt whilst sitting next to Neville Longbottom. She had eaten nothing but her earlier ice-cream, and the richness was now sitting heavily on her stomach, making her feel faintly queasy. For a moment she wondered if she could get out of this by faking illness; but Madam Pomfrey had too many effective remedies at her disposal for that to work.

Remedies for every complaint except Hooch's Dangerous Dancing, she thought bitterly. She was still unconvinced that the Flying Teacher hadn't done this on purpose.

She was also trying to put the pre-match conversation with Professor McGonagall out of her mind - if you could call it a conversation.

"I complained to the Headmaster in the strongest terms about a Head of House refereeing a match involving his own house. I warn you that if I see the slightest hint of favouritism, I shall be asking for the result to be set aside." She really hadn't appreciated the degree of outright hostility between her own Head of House and Snape that flared on occasions like these.

Now she was waiting for everyone to get ready to begin. Harry was glaring at Draco who was glaring right back. Above her, she supposed that Ron - Gryffindor Beater like his brothers before him - and Ginny - one of the Chasers - were moving into position. Her peripheral vision caught the Slytherin Chasers circling above like green and silver vultures. It was probably too late to wish that she had paid more attention to the etiquette of these moments. Instinctively she glanced towards the staff box. Dumbledore was there; she could see him beaming. She could also see Hooch, who caught her eye and gave her a cheery wave.

Not personal, eh?

She tightened her grip on Snape's broom, blew her whistle sharply, and then threw the Quaffle into the air.

And all hell broke loose.

A game that looked merely dangerous from the stands, looked suicidally reckless from the point of view of the referee. Hermione was so busy trying to concentrate on the players and avoid being injured in the process, that she almost forgot her lack of confidence in flying and what followed certainly ranked as one of the most confused two and a half hours of her life. Moves that looked perfectly obvious when set out on paper were translated into actual play as a sort of free for all melee, where she was reduced to dispensing a form of summary justice to the last person that she saw actually doing anything. More than once players of both sides looked as if they were going to object to her decisions. Even Draco Malfoy was heard to mutter "whose side are you on anyway...?" under his breath.

Ron, however, was the worst.

"But, Professor," he had protested after she had awarded a penalty to Slytherin, "Malfoy clearly grabbed Ginny...."

She didn't doubt it, but hadn't seen it in the confusion. She glared.

"Are you questioning my judgement, Mr Weasley?" Please just shut up, Ron.

He had subsided, although there was much rumbling from the Gryffindor stands.

Purgatory continued.

And then the miracle happened. There was a massive cheer from the Gryffindor stands and she looked up to see Harry with the Snitch clutched in his right hand, doing victory rolls over the pitch.

If she had had the energy she would have done one herself, just for the fact of it being over. She was more than proud of herself that she managed to get off the pitch and to her rooms before her legs started to shake.

Later that evening she and Snape met in the Potions Room. He simply looked at her as she sat at his desk, her earlier restlessness replaced with exhaustion.

"Do not ever ask me to do that again," she said with feeling.

He snorted.

"Do try to curb your tendency towards melodrama, Hermione. It appears that both sides are of the opinion that the game could have been better refereed by a blind, senile cripple, and that fouls and offside plays were missed in almost every minute of the match." He paused and Hermione waited gloomily for the stinging criticism. "And as that particular conversation takes place after just about every known sporting event, I can only conclude that your performance was acceptable. Certainly, Professor McGonagall is currently nauseatingly jubilant about her victory." He twisted the word her with irony, and Hermione felt her lips twitch in response. She knew exactly what he meant.

He moved towards the cauldrons that he had been working on.

"I trust that your trip to London this morning was uneventful." She supposed that was as close as he was likely to get to asking if she felt better. She also noted that he was using her given name again.

"Completely uneventful," she confirmed as she eased herself up, ready to assist him.