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MetroVampire & Rhosymedre

Part 24 - Nature Has Blessed Him With An Obliviousness To His Own Absurdity

A charming young woman. He was never going to live this down; and it would get out - not before he and Hermione had swapped back again, but Snape was absolutely certain that the staff would find out eventually. It was too good a tale for Dumbledore to resist once the danger was past. He would trust the Headmaster with his life, but trusting him with his sanity was probably too much to ask.

Snape half-walked, half-stumbled back to the Gryffindor common room, head buzzing with ideas and incipient nightmares. Privately amused at Hermione's tactic of 'being nice'; definitely the most disconcerting option she could have constructed when dealing with Hooch. The woman probably had no idea what was going on - and too little knowledge of Potions to suspect Polyjuice. Besides, he thought with a grimace, who would want to be Snape.

Hermione was making a surprisingly good job of being Snape; time and observation had made it obvious that his life was not, perhaps, so far from her day to day reality. The sarcasm and short temper were, he thought, not much of an exaggeration of her personality - one she kept well-hidden from her peers. His own sarcasm and short temper had been muted as he had kept them as well-hidden as she; a burst of alcohol-fueled introspection made him wonder whether he was becoming the person he would have been had he not succumbed to Slytherin peer pressure.

He reached the door to his room and stumbled through it, muttering nox aeterna to the door just before he fell into it. He fell, instead, onto the bed as Crookshanks jumped neatly from the covers and re-settled on a nearby chair.

The last thought re-echoed through his mind and he snorted with laughter. He had had far too much to drink if he thought his personality would have developed into that of an 18-year old girl.

Not just any 18-year old girl, prompted some vaguely sober part of his brain.

Snape shook his head and pulled himself back to his feet, shedding clothes as he headed for the bathroom. It was far too late to begin conversations with himself.

The bathroom mirror reflected the sight of a naked tall, slender, girl - a sight he still found rather disconcerting. No matter what his subconscious brought up, he did not feel female. And he definitely did not feel like a teenager. He splashed his face with cold water, hoping to shock some sense back into himself. It worked, after a fashion, and he felt slightly more in control of himself and his thoughts; he also felt more awake which had not been the point at all.

A bath, he thought vaguely. That would send him to sleep. He had largely avoided the myriad bath lotions and potions, preferring to shower quickly. It gave less time for thought and consequences but, now, he was just tired enough not to give thought to the consequences.

A couple of quick commands and he had a bath of steaming, eucalyptus-scented, water in front of him.

He stepped in, sinking into the water with some primeval sense of relaxation and belonging. In the quiet distance of night he heard the bell chime the hour. It was three in the morning, he noted, too relaxed to care.

Unthinkingly, he brushed one hand down over himself, as though brushing the evening away; his fingers caught and rubbed a nipple and he gasped, arching softly with a sudden, tired, arousal. He blinked, at once drowsy and alert, and caught sight of himself in the mirror on the back of the door. A young woman - and definitely a woman - looked back, wet and slightly disheveled, hair tumbling around a long neck and elegant collarbones.

Snape watched the woman - himself, he knew, but right now preferred not to know - raise her hand to her breast again, kneading lightly then pinching and rubbing the nipple; he was caught, fascinated by the sight and dissociated enough from reality to stare and reach between his legs for something that wasn't there. He found, instead, an aching nub - and that, right now, would do. One hand below the water, another on his breasts, he brought himself to climax watching Hermione in the mirror. And in that moment, it was Hermione that he was watching; he was, in his over-stimulated imagination, back in his own body and watching her think of him.

Reality intruded eventually in the form of cooling water; Snape pulled himself from the bath and dried off, resolutely refusing to look in the mirror or look at himself. For tonight, he would keep the fantasy. He fell asleep, wondering just when it was that Hermione had become so important to him.

Morning came far too quickly; not enough sleep, too much alcohol and introspection. Term was finished - the best thing about the Yule Ball was that it ensured that no-one need think of school again for a few weeks, teachers and students alike. Snape woke with the sun pouring in through the window, a low bright winter sun starkly golden in the mid-winter sky.

Last night's thought crowded in on him and, equally rapidly, were pushed away. Time enough to consider all that later, if the need ever arose. Snape groaned, as much at the thought of moving as at the unintentional pun. Still, he was awake now and the best thing to do was surely to move - to find something to do, to occupy himself.

Washed and dressed, in black jeans and a black sweater, Snape left the room and prowled downstairs. The common room was empty, the rest of the year either packing or still sleeping off the Ball, so he wandered out into the corridors; he nodded absently to the Fat Lady as she wished him 'good day'.

The corridors were almost as empty as the common room, with the ghosts more numerous than the students. At the foot of Gryffindor Tower, McGonagall looked at Snape faintly oddly as he stalked past her. He recollected himself enough to turn, smile and make some excuse about needing to check on his Potions project. McGonagall clearly accepted the excuse, nodding and wishing him a good day as he moved away.

Turning excuse into action, Snape headed for the dungeons. Passing the door to the Slytherin common room, he found himself face to face with Alice Lacock. The girl was hurrying, head down, and nearly ran into him. She gasped momentarily, then the horror on her face cleared as she realised who she had almost walked into.

"Um, Hermione, I'm sorry. I was just ..."

Snape swallowed the inclination to yell at her.

"Perhaps you could pay a little more attention to where you're going in future, Miss Lacock."

"I will, I will, I'm sorry, I was just ... I need ... could I come and talk to you again, please? I need to talk to someone, and ..." The child's voice trailed off; Snape sighed. It was all too clear why she wanted to talk to him; and he had little choice. The Head Girl was supposed to be available to the female students for counseling when she had time - and it was the holidays, so too much work would not do as an excuse. Perhaps, though, he could do something about talking her out of this.

"Tomorrow, Alice - you're staying on over the holidays aren't you?" At the girl's nod, he continued. "Then tomorrow afternoon at 3pm. I'll be in Hogsmeade this afternoon, so it'll have to be tomorrow."

Harry and Ron had finally cornered Snape into going to Hogsmeade, protesting that he could not possibly have too much to do in the holidays; he had agreed rather reluctantly, although amused by Ron's clear triumph at having come up with what he obviously believed to be an unmissable treat - they would let him go to the bookshop whilst they went to look at Quidditch supplies. Snape reminded himself to tell Hermione; she would appreciate it.

Now, in the corridor, Alice Lacock nodded. "Thank you, that's great." She heaved a sigh and headed back to the common room. Snape wondered where she had been heading before she was distracted by encountering the Head Girl. Probably in the same direction as himself, he thought as he strode off to the Potions classroom.

The room was empty when he arrived, the hazy winter sun picking its way through the dust motes to arc the hours across the floor. His current experiment on the Longbottom miracle was simmering slowly in a corner, bubbles occasionally rising and bursting on the surface. It seemed slow, infected with the holiday sluggishness that crept through the school when the students left. Snape was simply staring at the shimmering surface of the liquid when Hermione came into the room. His head snapped up when he heard her tread on the floorboards and the creak of the door to his rooms.

"Good morning," she said, voice low and quiet. She hadn't had coffee yet, he thought. Neither had he, come to that. A deficit that was soon remedied as Hermione held out a mug to him. Black and fragrant, steam curling into the cool air of the dungeon room; Snape nodded his thanks and took a sip, watching Hermione drink her own coffee as he did so. Last nights' thoughts came back to him in full measure as he studied her. He tried to look lost in thought when he realised she was watching him stare at her. An eyebrow quirked in amusement; his studied nonchalance wasn't very successful apparently.

"Well, you're not yelling at me, so it can't be something very serious," she said eventually. "Using the holidays to assert your personality a bit?"

Snape wondered what on earth she was talking about.

"It would seem, Miss Granger, that last night's festivities were too much for you. You're not making any sense."

The amusement turned to a lop-sided grin.

"Your clothes, Severus. Basic black, very flattering. Not quite as many buttons as you're used to. What happened, did you decide that as we're out of term you could revert to type? You should get away with it; I don't usually wear all black, but there's a first time for everything."

Snape wondered, for a moment, whether the potion was breaking down. Hermione sounded more like ... well, like Hermione, than she had done for some time. The fact that she had called him by his first name escaped him for the moment. He would remember, and wonder, later whilst in the midst of a mug of butterbeer. For now, though, he found himself glad that she seemed less strained than she had done for a while.

"No classes," he said.

Hermione nodded, apparently understanding the thought-train that had prompted that comment.

"Exactly; days where I don't need to worry about someone asking a question I can't answer. Time to study without having to prepare lessons as well; and you don't need to come up with elaborate excuses about the difficulty of your Potions project."

Snape nodded with an off-hand "quite" as he turned back to the experiment. He remembered the feeling; it had been years since he worried about not having answers, but having time to work without classes was a fresh advantage every time.

The morning passed quietly, punctuated by more coffee, measured stages of experimentation and a studied avoidance of Hermione's occasional quizzical glances. Snape wondered, as he stirred the potion, why he wasn't feeling more guilty, more stained, by his early morning fantasies. Lunch arrived before any answers came to him and he made his way to the Hall, feeling guilty about not feeling guilty.

Caught in that rather complicated series of emotions, Snape had no chance of avoiding Harry and Ron when they caught up with him and dragged him off to Hogsmeade.

Snape lagged slightly behind as they crunched through the new fall of snow that had blanketed the grounds just before dawn, listening idly to the banter between the two boys. He heard his name mentioned, suddenly, in a note of glee, just as Ron turned around; Snape braced himself for another character assassination. He did, from time to time, wonder whether Dumbledore had planned all this as a way to ensure that his ego was kept in check - although he thought that it could hardly be said to run rampant.

"What's up with you, anyway, Hermione? You finally seen the light?"

Snape frowned.

"What are you talking about, Ron?"

"You haven't defended Snape once this term - thought maybe you'd finally realised all the defence in the world wouldn't make him any less of a greasy git. We'll have you cursing him before the year is out - well, maybe," added Ron hastily. Some of Snape's temper was clearly showing through Hermione's face. "Sorry I spoke; just wondered why you hadn't told us to shut up about him like you usually do."

And that was an interesting thought. Hermione usually defended him? Well, if there was something Snape hadn't anticipated, it was that he would be less supportive of "Snape" than Hermione was.

In the end he just shrugged. "What's the point? You haven't stopped abusing the man in six years, why would you change in the seventh?" He forced a half-smile to his face, and it seemed to be enough to satisfy the boy. Ron turned back to Harry, and Snape heard the conversation pick up again. Something about Slytherin and Quidditch - probably scandalous and certainly inaccurate.

Harry and Ron did, to his surprise, stick to their word - they left him to the bookshop and scurried off to Wood's, the Quidditch supply store. He had no illusions that they might have accompanied him to the bookshop, but he had expected to be hauled off to Wood's, if only to provide an admiring audience. Hermione clearly had them well-trained, thankfully.

He spent the afternoon browsing, curled up in a dusty corner between high shelves; if the shopkeeper wondered why the Hogwarts Head Girl was immersed in the Potions section, he gave no indication. Perhaps it wasn't that unusual; it was, after all, academic and she was undoubtedly well-read in Potions as in every other subject; a touch too well-read for comfort at times.

Snape was eventually drawn away from the books by Harry and Ron, insisting that they had to go to the Three Broomsticks. Snape had rather hoped that they would have grown out of a taste for butterbeer but, unfortunately, they hadn't.