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MetroVampire & Rhosymedre

Chapter 30 - A Living Fire That Only Death Might One Day Cool

Snape was curled in a chair in front of the fire in the Gryffindor common room; long practice as a student, then a teacher, and now as a student again meant that he could block out the chaotic jumble of words - jokes, gossip, questions, insults and mumblings - that flowed through the room. His shins warmed by the fire, he buried himself in the arcane texts of a book he had re-discovered in the Library; a text on Transfiguration which he had vague memories of having been very useful when he had been a seventh-year the first time around. He was absolutely certain that the mandrakes would work when they matured, so that he wouldn't be faced with NEWTS in the summer. Absolutely certain. But, all the same, the book found its way into his bag, and then into his hands.

Had anyone seen him reading a Transfigurations book normally, the story and accompanied gossip would have fled around the school in moments - owls would lose any race against the Hogwarts grapevine. Severus Snape was well known to barely acknowledge Transfiguration as a skill. The sight of Hermione Granger reading a book on Transfigurations, however, raised no eyebrows and caused not the slightest flicker of gossip. It would probably have been more remarkable if she hadn't been reading a book. Any book.

Very few realised that the same was true of Snape.

Concentration - and a determination to deconstruct the Middle English of the writer - meant that Neville Longbottom had probably been waiting for some time beside the chair, waiting to be noticed. That, though, was undoubtedly something that the boy was used to, Snape thought when he finally realised that someone was standing beside him.

He had, one way and another, largely managed to avoid Longbottom outside the classroom over the last few months. No matter how accustomed he became to being Hermione, to taking on the persona and personality of an 18-year-old girl, he was absolutely certain that he would never become accustomed to having to deal with Neville Longbottom. He was coming to believe that at least part of the reason was that Hermione herself had never become accustomed to having to deal with him.

Six years of supporting the boy through Potions classes hadn't, apparently, inured her to him and his incompetence. Snape had had to bite back amusement at her mutterings regarding Mr Longbottom since the beginning of this whole farago. That she was annoyed with the boy after the accident wasn't surprising - he would have been deeply suspicious if she had treated it with more equanimity - but that she should continue to abuse Mr Longbottom under her breath after class was a surprise. He hadn't specifically asked her, but it was reasonably clear that Hermione didn't count Neville as one of her favourite people.

Snape resigned himself to the inevitable.

"Neville," he said at last, finally lookinq up from his book. "Can I help you?"

The words alone made him cringe. He had taken the challenge of being Hermione Granger with trepidation - fear for one's life is remarkably motivating - and, on the whole, he had adjusted to it a damn sight better than he would predicted. Worryingly so, in fact. If he had more time to think about it ... perhaps it was as well that he didn't.

None of which, unfortunately, had made Neville Longbottom go away and - despite his question - Snape knew exactly what the boy wanted.

Coaching.

This was, without any doubt whatsoever, the worst thing about being Hermione Granger. Even enduring a menstrual cycle was less trying - although not by much.

"Um, Hermione, could you go through the work we did in Potions today with me? I didn't quite follow what Professor Snape was talking about - I can't understand what he means most of the time."

The irony of that statement was not lost on Snape, but he shut his book and resigned himself to the loss of the rest of his evening. The class had centred on a reasonably straightforward potion - a strengthening potion, involving rock oil, mistletoe cut with a golden sickle and lobster. It was one of the few potions that was vaguely palatable.

Hermione had gone on to develop the theme of the last few classes - substitution of ingredients, in this case testing the efficacy of the usual substitution of beetroot juice for the rock oil in the potion. There was nothing particularly difficult about any of it, and the potion itself was not unusual. It gave a short-lived burst of strength to the user - not as effective as it could be, since the potion also generally caused the drinker to glow momentarily and that was something of a giveaway that tended to warn anyone in the vicinity of what had just been drunk.

Snape didn't usually teach that particular potion - it wasn't practical and time was short - but Hermione had argued that it was a memorable way to teach substitutions; students generally didn't forget the experience of seeing one another glow. He had given in, with bad grace, warning her that he would be watching to make sure she didn't allow the class to degenerate into amusement.

The bad grace was largely to mask the raging envy that he hadn't thought of the same technique before, and he rather suspected that Hermione knew it. She knew him entirely too well; and perhaps not as well as he would like. There definitely wasn't time to pursue that particular train of thought. Neville still stood beside the chair, waiting for him.

The boy had borne - as often - the brunt of Hermione's sarcasm today; he was completely incapable of doing anything right. Snape wondered whether things simply went through the boy's head without stopping. Lingering resentment regarding the accident that had ensured that he ended up in front of the fire in the Gryffindor common room in an 18-year-old girl's body did not improve his view of Mr Longbottom.

Snape uncurled that particular body from the comfort of the armchair and stood to face Neville; he was still taller than him, even in this guise. Perhaps that had something to do with the boy's discomfiture, but Snape suspected that discomfiture was actually part of his natural character, regardless of whom it was that he was facing.

"Right. Where do you want to do this? In here, or one of the classrooms?" He knew that Neville preferred the common room, even though they normally moved to one of the classrooms when the racket in Gryffindor Tower became too much.

Neville nodded at the question. "One of the classrooms. Quidditch practice will be over soon."

An excellent reason for removing themselves from the common room. That much adrenaline and testosterone - from the girls on the team as well as the boys, or so it seemed - did not make for a pleasant environment in which to pummel some knowledge into Mr Longbottom.

"How about the potions classroom?" suggested Snape, an impassive face hiding the amusement at the horror that flickered over Neville's face. He continued, before Neville could speak. "It would give me an opportunity to check on my project work at the same time - and we might be able to check some of the problems you're having in practice, not just in theory."

Neville swallowed. "Won't - won't Snape mind?"

"I don't think he'll say anything. He's had to put up with me traipsing in and out of there regularly this year, what with the work on this project." Snape wondered whether Neville had noticed the evasion.

Whether he had or not, Neville still looked extremely unconvinced at the wisdom of heading for the potions classroom out of hours. He made no more vocal protest, though, and trailed after Snape as he headed out past the Fat Lady to negotiate this evening's arrangement of the staircases.

Finally, the dungeon staircases welcomed them, reassuringly static in the near-darkness, and Snape led the way to the classroom. He knocked swiftly then opened the door; enough time to warn Hermione that he was coming in, and the knock should have alerted her to the fact that he was not alone.

She looked up as he entered the room, a sourly puzzled expression on her face. Snape wondered what the problem was - she hadn't been at dinner, and he had been surprisingly distracted by her absence. He refused to think about that fact that he thought about her so much. Denial was a virtue - and if it wasn't, then he would make it so.

"Miss Granger, Mr Longbottom. To what, precisely, do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

Dark sarcasm indeed. Snape fought a grin, dampening it with more concern at the grating edge of ... something ... in her voice.

"I needed to check the project work, Professor - the main potion needs stirring this evening - and Neville asked for help with something."

"Why am I not surprised? Well, Mr Longbottom, at least you had the grace to do so without disrupting the class. Very well, you know where things are."

Snape nodded and led Neville through the classroom to the laboratory off to the side; it was half-lit with flickering sconces in the walls. This early in the year, the sun set so early that the dungeons were dark for more than half the day despite the extensive windows let into the cliffside of the school.

Several cauldrons in various sizes were set over fires here, the orange-red glare of the flames vivid in the dusk of the room; the contrast diminished as Snape spelled the sconces to full light, and the cauldrons looked less like the mouths of hell and more like a lunch-time soup.

Neville stared around the room blinking, apparently startled by the sight of the work that was being done in here. Snape supposed that he would have had no opportunity to see this room - or, indeed, to see a full-blown experimental process underway. A kernel of an idea formed, and he tucked it away for the future. He doubted that Hermione would be comfortable with including experimental techniques in her lesson plans, so it would have to be something for the future - but potions-creation would vary the syllabus somewhat. The students might not appreciate it, but it would vary what had become too predictably routine.

Snape caught himself mid-laugh and turned it into a cough; Neville was looking at him very oddly. Predictably routine .. oh yes, so completely predictable that he regularly exchanged bodies with a seventh-year student. Good grief, he was getting far too self-contemplative. Teenage female hormones were odd things.

"Sorry, caught something at the back of my throat."

Neville seemed to take that explanation at face value, and Snape turned his attention to the cauldrons in front of him. He took a few minutes to make the necessary adjustments, then returned his focus to Neville.

"Ok, let's get this sorted out; tell me what you did understand about the lesson." That would undoubtedly be shorter than asking what he had not understood.

They worked through the problem slowly; Snape was aware that Hermione was watching them from time to time, looking up from the pile of work on her desk. Neville probably thought it marking; Snape knew it to be the Arithmancy homework that he would be expected to hand in tomorrow. He still had the marking to do this evening; it was going to be a late night because he would also need to review Hermione's Arithmancy work - not for accuracy, she hardly needed him to check for that, but simply because he might be expected to know what was in it. This was no sinecure - he might not have to study as such, but he had far less free time as Hermione than he did as himself.

The rest of the evening passed in a flurry of undertones and explanations, finishing up with a discussion of the respective merits of silver and gold which Snape was fairly certain went straight over Neville's head. Nonetheless, it should reinforce his understanding that it was gold which would be needed to cut the mistletoe for the strengthening potion, even if he didn't quite grasp the effect of the molecular structure of the gold on the chemical composition of the mistletoe.

And - if he allowed reality to intrude - Snape well-knew that Neville Longbottom would never in his life attempt to make a potion after he left Hogwarts. As long as he knew enough to get through NEWTs, that would be all he would need to know. Depressing, but true.

Neville escaped once the study session was over, heading back to Gryffindor with only a token attempt to persuade 'Hermione' to come with him. He readily accepted the excuse that the project needed more work, allowing that to over-ride his natural inclination to try to protect the female of the species.

Snape puttered around the cauldrons in peace after Neville had left, soothed by the gentle hissing and bubbling of the work around him. He relaxed slowly, eased by the familiar, and finally turned to Hermione.

He had resisted close contact with her after that unexpected kiss at the start of term; some things were just better not thought about. It had to be a mistake; he hadn't thought the way he did, and she could not have reacted the way he thought he had seen. But some still part of Snape's mind reminded him that he did think that way. Whether he had seen more than just a reflection of his own desires in Hermione's eyes was something else altogether. He could not - would not - summon the ego required to believe it.

None of that stopped the flash of a dreamt picture that stole through his thoughts at the most inappropriate times - as well at more appropriate times. A picture of two people: one male, tall, dark and lean, the other female, with long hair and softly curved. The picture intertwined them and, if he gave it free rein, twisted and writhed over the gossamer white of sheets with an erotic charge that could - and did - leave him gasping at night in the safety of his bedroom, caught between the image and the half-reality.

As he came back into the classroom, locking and warding the laboratory behind him, Snape noticed Hermione rub absently at her arm. Her left arm.

"Are you alright?" he asked, cautiously. There were some questions he dreaded, some answers he hoped never to hear.

"Hmm?" Hermione lifted her head. "Yes, I'm fine. Why do you ask?"

"You're - you're rubbing at your arm." Put that way, it did sound odd.

"It's itching - burning slightly. I must have spilt something on it earlier; the Hufflepuffs weren't as careful as they could have been."

Snape felt himself go cold and shivered; force of will overrode shock, though, and he brought himself to sense with a deep breath.

"Can I have a look?" he asked, eventually. Better to know for sure than to fear in ignorance.

Hermione looked a little surprised at the request; the expression sat oddly on his features. Then she shrugged, took off the robe and coat that she wore and rolled up the sleeve on her left arm, presenting the arm for his inspection. She was watching him, and Snape rather thought that she was thinking about something else. His ego thought she might be thinking about him - but that was something to ponder another time.

Silence. He had no words, and the suddenly profound silence drew Hermione's gaze to her arm as well. Snape heard nothing; not even the ambient noise of brewing potions and a thousand-year-old school. Or Hermione's harsh gasp.