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MetroVampire & Rhosymedre

Part 29 - I Don't Like It, It's Too Quiet...

The first two weeks of January passed in a state of eerie expectancy. Hermione couldn't say that things had returned to normal between her and Snape, mostly due to the lack of any benchmark against which to judge. They certainly hadn't gone back to pre-accident normal; she doubted if that would ever be achievable anyway. She had learnt too much about him - not to mention taken far too many liberties with his body - to simply reconsign him to the category of Miserable Sarcastic Bastard in her mind. But they hadn't really gone back to post-accident normal either.

Their little greeting had seen to that, for Hermione at least.

Despite her alternating desires to hug and strangle Snape, she had had not the slightest intention of giving in to either. In fact, her plan had been to be very Snape-ish about the whole thing; off-hand and dismissive. Even if she had made it her business to surreptitiously find out when Sirius was due to return Snape and the boys to Hogwarts. And even if she had made sure that she was ensconced at her desk just when she knew he'd have shaken off Harry and Ron, judging that one of his first ports of call would be the dungeons - if only to check that she hadn't wrecked them in his absence.

She had been carefully cultivating her Snape-humour, when he had utterly turned it with his rueful comment about some particular stone on the beach, and then she hadn't been able to hide how pleased she was to see him. It hadn't been a hug, just a simple kiss on the cheek and then a startled withdrawal; to be followed by an even more startled realisation that the embrace had been something mutual and that his eyes had held a promise of something that had to have been her imagination.

She had struggled for words to cover the moment and stammered some mind-wrenchingly inane statement, trying not flinch in anticipation of the excoriating retort. But it hadn't come; the reply had been mild indeed and the conversation had mercifully moved on to safer topics.

Although who could have pictured Snape in a snowball fight? Or sitting through a Muggle film? Or receiving the confidences of Ginny Weasley without so much as a shudder?

She smiled to herself. In some ways it was a shame that her friends would never be able to know; although she supposed that their embarrassment would outweigh the amusement value.

She and Snape had returned to their familiar patterns, yet they were not familiar any more. They still worked together, talked together, exchanged information and occasionally baited one another, but there was something else; at least for her. An awareness of him, a sense of him that pervaded her thoughts, unspoken acknowledgements of things that would irritate or amuse, a myriad of mental notes to share. And the curious feeling that at the end of the day there would be someone there who might glare and mutter, but who would listen and understand.

Their evenings were now more than a pleasure for her; they were a lifeline. And if their companionship ever went further in her mind, ever moved to soft whispers and touches; well, you couldn't stop a girl from thinking, could you?

In fact, this evening had been one for thinking those self-same thoughts. There had been moments when she could have sworn that he was watching her, very covertly. She, in turn, had been trying to observe him without him noticing. The more important he became to her, the more cautious she became about revealing herself; for every time that she thought she saw a flicker of response, there was another memory of his reaction to Alice Lacock. She did not want to be on the receiving end of that. Not ever.

In point of fact, she was more than grateful that Alice, herself, had managed to find another object of her interest over the Christmas break. It had been a mild relief to take points off the girl for eyeing up the Gryffindor boy during their joint potions lesson. Not that a Gryffindor would be any more acceptable in the Slytherin Common Room than the Head of House. She suspected that she - or Snape - hadn't seen the last of Miss Lacock.

Thoughts of Alice were a welcome distraction from the odd atmosphere of the evening. Whilst not unpleasant, her time with Snape had passed in an odd sort of carefulness.

Now she was back in rooms that almost felt like hers, trying to second, third and fourth guess the motives of a man who was not known for his personal transparency. She sighed and summoned a glass of water, wandering through to the bedroom. She put the water down next to the bed and began to unbutton her robes. She had long since overcome any unease with her current body, stripping easily down to her shorts, tossing her robe over a chair and making her way to the bathroom to wash up for the night. Finishing, she returned to the bedroom, with barely a glance in the mirror at her masculine self. She slipped under the covers, pulling the quilt around her shoulders. Whatever troubles the man himself might have, she found being in his environment curiously soothing. She drifted off to sleep curled in the ephemera of Snape's life,

She awoke from a confused dream that involved some kind of explosions - she thought it might have been fireworks. She came back to consciousness, heavy headed and disorientated, and gradually realised that the explosions had not gone away. Pushing herself up on one elbow she groped for her wand, and muttered Lumos in a dull voice. The light inexplicably sharpened her hearing, and her brain processed the noise into the information that someone was knocking on her door.

This had better be important, she thought fuzzily as she clambered out of bed and pulled her discarded robe around her. She swallowed against the slight nausea that always came with traumatic awakening, grimacing at the taste in her mouth. She walked across to the door, trying to force her mind into Snape-tracks.

The hammering had not abated. More awake now and beginning to be genuinely irritated, Hermione opened the door. She was decidedly not expecting that sight that greeted her.

The eternally unsavoury Argus Filch.

And behind him, three figures; in the dimness of the corridor she could just see that one had black hair, one had red hair and one had thick brown hair.

Of course. Who else would it be? And couldn't he have stopped them?

"What," she said deliberately, annoyance not even remotely faked, "exactly are you doing here at...," she didn't even know what time it was for Gods' sake, "... this hour of the morning?"

"We found them," said Filch triumphantly, "they thought they could hide, but Mrs Norris sniffed them out, didn't you my love?" Hermione blinked and saw a faint gleam of red in the darkness. Although she was habitually predisposed to like anything even vaguely feline - she had, after all, adopted Crookshanks - she had an uncharacteristic vision of a pair of extra fluffy mittens.

"I can see that you have found them, Filch," she said with distaste, "what I fail to understand is what you expect me to do with them at... what time is it precisely?"

"It's quarter to three, and they're breaking curfew."

"Another obvious point," she noted, "but again, I ask you, what do you expect me to do at quarter to three in the morning?"

If that was a hint of a smirk I caught from Snape, he's going to suffer for it, I swear.

She glared in the direction of the "Head Girl" but Snape's expression was now carefully neutral.

"They should be dealt with," pronounced Filch with satisfaction.

I suppose that transfiguring the three of them into a nest of coffee tables is completely out of the question.

She focussed her attention past the gloating caretaker and on the Gryffindors - two native and one immigrant - in front of her, searching for the correct words. Harry and Ron were looking at her defensively, Snape was carefully avoiding her eye.

"Sir," he said, with a fairly good attempt at diffidence, "if I could explain...."

She nearly choked, mostly at the knowledge that intervening at that point was precisely what she would have done.

"Miss Granger," she snapped, "fascinating as it will doubtless be, I have better things to do that stand around in the middle of night listening to fairy tales. You may provide that, and any other explanation you care to devise, tomorrow evening - I beg your pardon - this evening in detention. Seven o'clock." A nasty thought arose in her mind, born of being unwillingly awake. "Now get back to your rooms, all of you." She paused deliberately, as they began to back away, dawning glee on the faces of the boys and something unreadable on Snape's that might just have been anxiety. As they turned away from her, she added pointedly, "and whilst you're passing by the Great Hall, be sure to note the one hundred and fifty points that will have been deducted from the Gryffindor House total."

Their reaction was well concealed but the slight break in the boys' step told her that she had hit home. Snape halted and turned back towards her. Before he could do or say anything, he was firmly grabbed by Harry.

"Come on, Hermione," he hissed, not very subtly, "you'll only make it worse."

"Wise advice, Mr Potter," she agreed blandly, but she could have sworn that Snape's eyes had held a spark of admiration. That thought warmed her more than she wanted to admit.

"What are you going to do to them?"

She had forgotten Filch, standing to her side, eyes shining with anticipation. It was a singularly unwholesome thing.

"That," she said repressively, "is for me to decide."

With that she stepped back into her rooms and firmly closed the door. She knew that Snape wouldn't care about her being rude to Filch, and she didn't care about her being rude to Filch either. It was one of the unexpected bonuses of her position. Even if being awake at three a.m. wasn't.

Which just left her to come up with some way of dealing with detention.

__

Detention had been one of those things that she had always managed to lay off to other people; Filch, Sprout, Hooch, Poppy Pomfrey - even Hagrid, on occasion - all of them could find suitably unpleasant ways of occupying someone's time. It wasn't that hard; all you had to do was make sure you played to the detainee's weakest subject. Hermione consoled herself with the thought that opportunity to work on weak areas was actually a benefit to them.

She had particularly tried to avoid giving Harry and Ron detention with her; leaving aside her natural loyalties, there were too many opportunities for her to make a mistake and for them to notice something amiss. And as she spent so much time in the company of Snape anyway, giving him detention with her was barely noticeable. However, Filch had backed her into a corner and she had been left with little choice.

She glanced at the clock. It was nearly seven o'clock and she still had that slightly disconnected feeling that came from a broken night. She could certainly count on them to be on time, given that Snape, in the guise of herself, would be shepherding them down here. They were both naturally punctual people, she thought idly. The second hand on the clock ticked its way round the clock face, and just as all the hands made the slight shift to signal the hour, there was a knock at the classroom door.

She waited a beat and then summoned them in.

The three of them entered, Harry and Ron exuding equal parts reluctance and resentment. Snape followed, with less than his usual enthusiasm, face oddly blank.

Of course, she thought, he could hardly dump his books on my desk and complain bitterly about whoever, whilst I make him coffee. She felt an odd sort of resentment of her own towards Harry and Ron - she doubted that Snape would have actually instigated a midnight excursion - who had contrived to spoil her evening.

The offenders themselves were milling rather uncertainly.

"Sit down," she said irritably.

They obediently took seats at the front of the classroom. Ron looked as if he was about to say something to Harry and then thought better of it; either that or Snape had finally managed to train him to respond to an elbow in the ribs. Snape, himself, settled his arm back on the top of the bench without a flicker of expression.

Well, this was it. Time for the disguised benefit principle to come into play.

She took her place at the front of the room.

"Mr Potter, Mr Weasley," she began, "I have - mainly by way of self-defence - been observing you this term. Whilst it would gave me personally a great deal of pleasure to think of you cleaning the cauldrons from today's first year classes by hand" - that was only partially an exaggeration - "for some reason I feel compelled to try to make this evening productive." She could have sworn that a muscle in Snape's face twitched for a moment. She looked at him hard, but he was intently studying the desktop. "Mr Potter, I would like you to prepare a Gnome Repellent and you, Mr Weasley, some Elixir de Chanteur." The boys blinked at this and Snape gave her a swift thoughtful look.

She had given this careful consideration. Both boys were capable, if not brilliant, at potions but they tended to be careless. Harry rushed through the preparation of his ingredients so that they were not fine or even enough; Ron prepared things well enough, but frequently failed to pay attention to the method, being inexact with measurements or combining steps to save time. She had never managed to persuade them - as Hermione - that things needed to be taken carefully. She would now have a go as Snape.

Neither potion was particularly difficult or even on the syllabus for that year. The Gnome Repellent was a handy staple, useful for those who didn't have the time or inclination to physically toss the pests off the garden. It was straightforward to make, but did require the ingredients to be very precisely prepared. The Elixir de Chanteur - almost a joke potion, giving the drinker the ability to make any vocal noise of their choice - was more forgiving of sloppy preparation; but the method had to be exact, otherwise you simply ended up with a potion that caused severe flatulence.

"Well," she said, "as you will not be leaving until the potions are correct to my satisfaction I suggest that you get started, instead of staring vacantly into space."

They got started.

Snape hadn't moved.

"And as for you, Miss Granger...." She had thought about this as well. Now that she had the perfect, unassailable opportunity for revenge, she had found that she didn't want to take it. "I have a private project that requires some attention." She gestured towards the experiments that she and Snape had been running. "I'm sure that your much vaunted abilities will enable you to work out what needs to be done."

Snape was already on his way over to the cauldrons. She might not be able to enjoy his company but there was no reason why the work should not continue.

__

The evening wore on. Harry and Ron, for the first time that Hermione could remember in either incarnation, were giving more than sixty percent of their attention to what they were doing. As a result, their potions were proceeding with surprising accuracy. Hermione swept behind them a few times, keeping an eye on what they were doing, but her attention was increasingly called to Snape, working quietly on their on-going experiments.

Eventually, she couldn't restrain herself any longer, judging that it would be reasonable for her to check on "Hermione's" work as well. Trying to maintain the same air of disdain that she showed to the boys, she moved over to the private working area, stopping when she could see him clearly without encroaching on his personal space.

At that moment the full force of his personality was focussed tightly into the task at hand. She watched him in silence, mesmerised by the hands that were and were not his, aware of the play of tendons and veins beneath the skin as he reached and selected and chopped and added and manipulated the ingredients before him. He endowed her with a grace that she didn't know that her body was capable of. There was a skill and deftness that came from him, a sureness of touch that sprang from years of experience, a confidence that was not hers, for all her knowledge. There was something so controlled about it that it almost frightened her; frightened her not because it was alien, but because it was so familiar.

There was the potential for that to be hers, she thought. If he could do that with her hands, then so could she. She followed his movements as he swept up the last tiny fragments of chopped nettles, fingers dragging over the work top. She could almost feel the grain of the surface under the tips; she had always had sensitive fingers. Unconsciously, her tongue flicked out to touch her upper lip. She tried not to imagine those fingers sliding over his skin, under her control, exploring the now familiar contours with another touch, re-learning the feel of skin over bone, skin over muscle, skin over....

She hoped that the sudden rush of heat didn't show on her face.

"Miss Granger," she said softly, not wanting to attract the attention of Harry and Ron, "why don't you explain to me exactly what it is that you're so confidently doing."

She aimed for an edge, but even she could hear that whatever underlay her tone was definitely not sarcasm.

He had given no sign that he was aware of her presence, but she noted a flinch and a slight catch in the breath that she chose to interpret as startled. There was the briefest of hesitations and then he began to explain the steps he was taking in the analysis of the mysterious potion. His tone of measured detachment brought her mind back on to a safer track; safer, but no less enjoyable. In many ways she derived as much academic pleasure from his company as she did personal.

The lecture was interrupted by a rather diffident announcement from Ron that he had finished his Elixir de Chanteur.

Snape put down the knife that he was holding and turned to face the boys, a carefully schooled expression of polite interest on his face. Hermione, herself, knew precisely what the correct course of action was.

"Would you care to demonstrate it for us?" Ron visibly hesitated. Hermione arched an eyebrow. "What, Mr Weasley? Don't you have faith in your own abilities?" She couldn't help herself; Ron wouldn't be harmed if the potion had failed, and this was rather fun. She promised herself that she would feel guilty about it later.

Gingerly, Ron poured a dose of the potion into a goblet and lifted it to his lips. Eyes closed, he drank. Carefully he placed the goblet back on the bench and looked at Hermione mutely.

"You have to make some kind of noise," she informed him. "How else are we to judge your work?"

Ron looked as if he might have been offering up some kind of silent prayer and then opened his mouth. A resounding cock-crow echoed around the room. An expression of profound relief settled over his face.

Hermione strove not to show any kind of reaction at all, simply turning to Harry, who gestured in turn at his cauldron. She strode over to look at it; it appeared to be the right colour and consistency.

"I can see nothing immediately wrong," she said, making herself sound as grudging as she possibly could. "Bottle it and take it with you. Report to Professor Sprout tomorrow to test it and bring a signed note from her to your next potions class. If it fails, you may consider Gryffindor House as possessing another ten fewer points. You may leave as soon as you have decanted the potion."

If there was a World Potions Bottling Speed Record, Hermione was in no doubt that she was watching it being broken. With even more alacrity than usual Harry and Ron were cleared up and ready to go. Snape was also tidying away, although with rather less enthusiasm, it appeared to her. But then again, that could also have been her imagination.

"Miss Granger," she said, wanting at least some private conversation with him that evening, "a word about your project, if I may."

Harry and Ron paused, clearly desperate to leave but showing some kind of reluctant protective instinct.

"Go," said Snape waving at them. "I'll see you back in the Common Room."

With ill-concealed relief, the boys fled.

Hermione and Snape looked at each other as the sound of the banging door died away to leave the room in silence.

"You do it on purpose, don't you?" she said eventually. "You enjoy watching me take house points from Gryffindor, knowing that if Slytherin win the house cup this year, a Gryffindor will have helped them to do it."

There was no real heat in her voice; if anything it was closer to resigned humour.

"I commend you on a very Slytherin analysis, Hermione, but actually, no. My motive was not to force you deduct points from your friends." A small smile twitched the corner of his mouth. "Although, there are benefits to every situation."

She felt the corner of her mouth tug in response.

"So what was it?" she asked. "You were going to give me an explanation as I recall."

He moved back from her, leaning on one of the desks.

"Mr Potter received an anonymous note, suggesting that Mr Malfoy might be up to no good, and that Mr Potter might have a chance to catch him in the act, as it were."

"And Harry would never be one to pass up that kind of opportunity," she sighed in understanding. "With Ron right by his side," she added. Her brow creased in thought. "I'm surprised they involved you, though. I wouldn't have been very keen on that sort of thing." Her mouth twitched again. "I would probably have marched them straight off to Professor McGonagall."

Snape nodded, with another faint smile.

"I did suggest it - on a number of occasions. However, I was - ah - overruled." He suddenly became serious. "And I chose not to press the point. If Mr Malfoy is involved in... nefarious activities... then I have a certain - professional - interest in knowing about it. Just in case they stray beyond the normal inter-house rivalries."

Hermione felt herself go a little cold. He had stressed the word professional in a way that made her think that he wasn't referring to his duties as a Hogwarts teacher. He needed to know whether or not Draco Malfoy was actively working on behalf of Voldemort. It was a sharp reminder of the seriousness of their position.

"And are you denying that you enjoyed the chance to finally get Mr Potter and Mr Weasley's undivided attention?"

His sudden change of tack jolted her; he must have read the expression on her face. And there was something about his tone of voice that made her suddenly wonder exactly what he had noticed about her life.

"Well, it certainly made a change," she said, trying to make a joke of it. "It mostly goes in one ear and out the other. I shall be astounded if tonight lasts as long as the next class."

Snape moved to collect his books.

"I should get back to the Common Room. I wouldn't want to miss out on another incisive critique of "my" personality and teaching habits."

She nodded, knowing that he was right but still reluctant for him to go.

He paused on his way to the door, looking back at her.

"That was well done, Hermione."