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Part 37 - The End of Days
The aftermath of bliss always comes with complications.
Only in Muggle films, reflected Hermione, did the protagonists ride off into the sunset, fading into the credits, happily glossing over the ramifications and consequences of their actions. Real life was not quite so neat and tidy. Real life had ragged edges and loose threads. In real life you had to clear up after the party.
They had fallen asleep in each other's arms, sated, drugged with experience and unlooked for passion. She awoke with the first flickerings of dawn, her body obeying a routine long established, and had already reached for Snape, prompted by memory and the drowsy stirrings in her groin, before she realised that he might be feeling the aftereffects of the night rather more acutely than she. Snape sleepily turned towards her and his half- extended hand stilled as a visible wince passed across his face.
Hermione felt a pang of something that combined guilt, satisfaction and a hastily squashed burst of relief that he was going through this part of the loss of female virginity, not she. The male experience was considerably less painful, although the almost total loss of higher brain function was a little disconcerting, at least the first time that it happened.
"Are you very sore?" she asked a little ruefully.
Snape carefully shifted himself onto his back.
"It does ache rather," he admitted after a moment.
"Ah," she responded, not really knowing what the etiquette of this moment was. In the light of dawn, with rather more control over her hormones, the more awkward aspects of their encounter were beginning to present themselves. She was startled out of her growing introspection by a warm caress that brushed teasingly over her crotch. She looked swiftly at Snape and was not that surprised to see a slightly knowing grin quirking his mouth.
"I thought as much," he said with a trace of humour.
"It's OK," she muttered, "I don't expect you feel much like anything anyway."
Unexpectedly, Snape was silent and she was astonished to see him chewing his lip; she wondered if he had realised that he had taken on that particular mannerism of hers. He appeared to be studying the ceiling, but his face was oddly intent.
"Would you be very offended if I said not really," he said eventually. He still wasn't looking towards her.
She pushed herself up onto one elbow and half turned so that she had a better view of him. His face was blank. She reached out to stroke the side of his face, tracing the line of his jaw. She could feel the muscles, tight under the skin, betraying his tension even though his voice was even. Bending towards him she placed her mouth gently on his.
"Of course not," she said softly. "Believe it or not, I really can imagine how you feel."
That made his face relax and his mouth twitch again.
"Yes, I suppose you can," he conceded. There was a pause, and then he added, with a curious diffidence, "however, there are other ways that I could assist you, if you wished it."
She understood what he was offering and pulled back to study his face, unwilling that he should feel pressurised into doing something that he found distasteful. His eyes held something that spoke more of anticipation than disgust. But all the same ....
"Are you sure," she asked a little hesitantly, "I don't want to force you to do anything ....".
His eyes narrowed.
"Miss Granger," he drawled pointedly, getting as close to his normal Snape-ish tones as he had ever managed whilst using her voice, "has something happened to give you the impression that I would offer to do something that I found objectionable out of some hitherto undiscovered vein of altruism?"
The tone and the words and the glitter in his eyes reminded her sharply that this was Snape lying here with her and sent a pulse of arousal straight to her groin. She decided not to comment on any question of his "altruism" and instead simply arched one eyebrow.
"Well, Professor Snape," she responded, matching his tone, "if you're offering ...."
Snape held her gaze provocatively for a moment and then bent his head. She closed her eyes as he began to trail his mouth down her breastbone.
Later - much later - they sat together in Hermione's rooms, dressed and as respectable as they were ever going to get considering that Snape was still wearing his clothes from the night before, sipping coffee and picking at breakfast. It had been fortunate that no one would expect either of them to be present that morning in the Great Hall, she thought. Even so, the meal still had disconcerting overtones of domesticity that she wasn't quite certain that she was ready for. Conversation was also a little difficult. There was no way that she could think of anything other than what had happened between them, and she knew that it would have to be addressed at some stage or other. However, she was pretty certain that now was not the time for that discussion; what little experience she did have with men had left her with no illusions as to the typical reaction of the male psyche to the phrase "We need to talk".
Snape was pensively chewing on his toast, staring into the middle distance, and she rather suspected that his thoughts were running along the same lines as hers. The silence lengthened, and for the first time in months Hermione began to wonder whether she should do or say something to break it. She was trying to compose a suitably appropriate phrase in her mind - and failing miserably - when Snape's gaze suddenly focussed on her.
"There's something that you need to know," he said abruptly. "About last night."
She felt her heart lurch in apprehension. Never mind the male psyche - she definitely wan't up to an in-depth discussion of her feelings at the moment. Perhaps it really was genetic; possession of male anatomy automatically gave you a built in resistance to a public analysis of your emotions. Was this the moment when he told her that it had all been a dreadful mistake? Surely not. She swallowed.
"There is?" she said carefully.
Snape nodded, and studied his toast.
"Last night, before I left the ball, I received another ... ahem ... proposition."
Whatever Hermione had been expecting to hear, it hadn't been that. She sipped at her coffee, hoping that the familiar movement would steady her nerves. It was exactly the wrong moment to have a mouthful of hot liquid.
"It was from Mr Weasley," Snape amplified.
Hermione choked as the coffee went down the wrong way and threatened to come back out her nose. She was vaguely aware of Snape removing the cup from her hand as she alternated breathing with a sixty-a-day cough. A handkerchief was pushed into her hand so she could wipe her streaming eyes and blow her nose.
"Ron?" she croaked, when she could make any kind of noise that didn't sound like Arthur Weasley's dying Ford Anglia.
Snape nodded. Her eyes were still blurry with tears, but she could have sworn that he actually looked sheepish.
"Ron?" she repeated, more strongly this time. "How in hell did you manage that? What happened?"
Bestowing on the toast more attention than any other lightly burnt slice of bread had ever received in the history of magic or science, Snape recounted what had happened between him leaving Hermione in the gardens and meeting her in her rooms. By the end of the story Hermione had once more managed to separate breathing and swallowing, and was able to give voice to unobstructed outrage.
"You mean that when I get my body back I'm going to be faced with Ron Weasley in the throes of unrequited love? Alice Lacock was bad enough."
"I believe that I discouraged him sufficiently. I suspect that he will be suffering more from injured dignity than anything else."
Hermione reminded herself to breathe evenly, trying to get the idea of Ron kissing her out of her mind. Then, unbidden, came another image; that of Ron kissing Snape. Her outrage receded as the humour of the situation struck her. Her mouth twitched. She glanced at Snape, who was looking somewhere between bemused and irritated. Laughter welled up in her throat. She tried to stifle it, but failed completely. Snape glared across the table as she dabbed at her eyes, which were once more streaming tears.
"I'm sorry," she managed, "but can you imagine the look on Ron's face if he knew that he'd kissed you."
She was sure that Snape's disgust was exaggerated, and that set her off again.
"Once again, Hermione, I feel you are having way too much fun at my expense."
She wondered if he had intended the double entendre, and was about to make some kind of comment, when he stood up suddenly.
"I believe I should return to my rooms," he announced, "no doubt someone - if only Miss Weasley - will wish for the gory details of last night."
"Just make sure Ginny only gets edited highlights," she admonished.
The remark drew a smile from him, for once without any kind of edge.
"You may be assured that whilst the account will certainly be heavily edited, it will definitely not contain the highlights," he said softly.
She stood and moved closer to him.
"Thank you for letting Ron down gently," she said quietly, answering past his last words. "I know he's an idiot at times, but I wouldn't like to see him really hurt."
"I thought as much," he acknowledged. There was a pause and then he repeated, "I really should go."
She didn't want him to, but knew that he couldn't stay, not if they didn't want to broadcast the fact that Something Was Going On to the whole school and beyond. She nodded reluctantly.
"Thank you, Severus," she said again, this time meaning far more than Ron. She stepped forward and touched her lips to his, lightly, with no intention of starting anything, just wanting to confirm something between them.
Snape nodded once and then was gone.
__
Once again, an overwhelming shift in Hermione's life was greeted by the exterior world with blank indifference.
Completely oblivious to the stresses and dramas of her personal life, students arrived in the dungeons to be taught the art and science of potions, to fail to pay attention and to misbehave. Staff meetings were held and Quidditch matches took place. Life cannot be lived on a cocktail of adrenaline, hormones and introspection; eventually the mundane makes its presence felt. Even the pressure of her first classroom meeting with Snape was alleviated by the need to watch Neville Longbottom to ensure that he didn't cause any greater catastrophes. For Hermione that lesson had in fact see-sawed between torture and farce as, in her efforts not to show any favour, she had thrown such vicious insults in Snape's direction that she noticed Ron shifting protectively towards him.
Snape, himself, had made no comment on the incident, other than a rather dry aside that as a way of discouraging Mr Weasley it appeared to lack a certain effectiveness.
Whilst she might say that she wanted time to think through what was going on, Hermione admitted to herself that it was probably just as well that she did have to focus outside herself from time to time. Otherwise, she would have ended up sitting in her rooms, playing scenarios through her head, of greater or lesser plausibility and desirability, which would simply spiral off into infinity. As it was, the need to pay attention to prevent her pupils damaging themselves or others provided a welcome grounding.
She and Snape had had to continue to work closely together, of course. Even if they had decided to suspend the "project" there were still the workaday aspects of their lives to consider; teaching, homework, NEWTs - from both their perspectives. Necessity overrode personal feelings, as it had since the end of September.
The events of Valentine's Day had not repeated themselves. It was not a conscious decision on the part of either of them, as far as she knew. At least, there had been no overt discussion between them, no sitting down and mapping out of a plan setting out how they would deal with this. It had just somehow not seemed the right thing to do. That didn't mean that she wasn't acutely aware of him, working together or studying or marking or talking or just sitting. And the touches continued, more now, definite caresses or a brush of the lips; but no more.
Hermione looked up from the Arithmancy homework that she had been blankly staring at for the past fifteen minutes. There was no point in denying it; her concentration had been non-existent since Professor Sprout had gleefully announced in the heads of house meeting that the mandrakes were nearly mature - she had had to break up a particuarly rowdy party in Greenhouse Three during the night and confiscate some other illicit herbal substances. She had caught Dumbledore's twinkle across the room; she knew that he wouldn't read anything into her lack of acknowledgment - Snape would never have done anything but glower - but the expected relief was strangely absent. As the meeting had dispersed, the Headmaster had made some comments about mandrakes and heralding spring and rebirth and renewal, which she suspected were for her benefit. She had tried to make the appropriate responses, but all she could feel was the sharp pang of approaching loss.
It wasn't that she had any desire to remain as Snape; she had no illusions about her ability to be the potions master on a long term basis. All it would take was another summons from Voldemort, or an incautious word and they would both be revealed. No, it was safer for all concerned if they resumed their proper identities as soon as possible. It was something more intangible than a simple matter of bodies; it was the loss of something unique, something that could only happen when the conditions were exactly right. And the more she chased the possibilities round her mind, the more she was being driven to the conclusion that once they regained their own bodies, the conditions would no longer be exactly right.
There were too many variables in this, too many elements of risk, too many vulnerabilities. They had been isolated within Hogwarts, trapped in a situation that only they could know about; could whatever they had survive the transition back to their usual lives? Hermione rubbed her temples, trying to ease the tension there. She looked around the rooms - her rooms, soon to be his rooms - again. She took in the warmth, the unexpected clutter, the light, the feeling of safety and comfort that she had found there. Yes, she wanted to see her things again, to wear her own clothes, to cuddle Crookshanks and wake up in the night with him sleeping in the exact centre of her back, happily constricting her breathing, But she would miss this; not just the space and the library and the comparative luxury of a teacher's quarters, but the feeling of being surrounded by him.
She couldn't - wouldn't deny the depth of what she was feeling; the passion, the connection, the hunger, the love that she felt for the complex and difficult man that was Snape.
All you need is love, she thought ironically, remembering a song that had been one of her parents' favourites. She closed her eyes and she could almost feel the record under her fingers; grooves etched into a seven inch pancake of black vinyl, stolen from the record cabinet and played over and over again on the stereo in her bedroom.
All you need is love. If only that were true.
__
In defiance of Hermione's determination to savour the last moments of this bizarre experience, the final days passed with almost unseemly haste. The Easter holidays were approaching and, in the way of teachers everywhere, this signalled a sudden increase in the study workload, to ensure that all essential areas of the syllabus were covered and that enough holiday homework was set to keep even the most industrious pupil occupied. Hermione was now used to the odd duality of dispensing work with one hand and receiving it with the other. However, even she noticed the upturn in the amount of essays, both outgoing and incoming.
The same evening that Professor Sprout had spoken of the mandrakes, Snape had arrived in the dungeons - late, as she had been at the staff meeting - and dumped a pile of parchment on one of the desks. Thinking that it was her homework, she had reached for it, only to have her hand brushed away gently but firmly by Snape.
"Draft examination papers," he had explained shortly, and then raised an eyebrow at her evident look of surprise. "Did you think that examinations wrote themselves? I have to prepare the papers and a scheme of marks." He bent and rummaged in his book bag. "This," he placed another sheaf of parchment on another desk, "is yours."
He had greeted the news of an impending cure with a lack of reaction that made her wonder if he were as ambivalent about it as her. He simply grunted an acknowledgement and moved over to the work area to examine the ongoing experiments. In some ways there was little point in carrying on with them, but she still wanted to know exactly what had been in that potion and she knew Snape well enough to be willing to bet that he felt the same way. A stir here and an adjustment of flame there and then he had silently returned to roughing out the second year potions exam. She might have thought that he was distant, until the time came for him to leave. Then, as she touched his lips goodnight, he reached up and buried a hand within her hair, pulling her close, kissing her with a fierce, brief hunger that left her gasping.
And then, one night when neither of them were expecting it, there was a knock at the dungeon door. Hermione looked up from her Transfiguration notes and was preparing to call a curt response, when the door opened and Professor Sprout poked her head around.
"Ah, there you are, Severus," she chirruped, as if he would have been anywhere else but here, working. The dumpy little witch eased herself into the room. Hermione could see that she was carrying a small rough canvas sack. "Oh .. and Miss Granger as well." The witch looked a little confused. "I didn't know that you worked down here too."
"Miss Granger is carrying out an extra-curricular potions project," Hermione interrupted repressively, hoping to discourage unwanted questions this close to getting away with it.
Professor Sprout blinked and then focussed back on Hermione.
"Yes, well," she said, frowning slightly, "the mandrakes are ready, and Albus said that you had urgent need of them for something, so I've brought you some down."
Hermione noticed that Snape, although he hadn't looked up from what he was doing, had gone very still.
"Thank you, Ermengarde," she said shortly, taking the sack from her. Much as she liked Professor Sprout under normal circumstances, she wanted the witch to go.
For her own part, Professor Sprout was clearly waiting, hoping to be told the exact purpose for which the roots were needed. Hermione had learned from her time as Snape; she waited Sprout out. Eventually, the Head of Hufflepuff seemed to get the message, for she made a noise in the back of her throat and swept out of the room, trailing wounded dignity.
Hermione watched her go, still holding the sack of mandrake roots. She gazed at the door to the room long after it had shut and all sounds of Professor Sprout had faded away. The silence was broken by Snape.
"I must remember the trick of keeping silent with Ermengarde. I'm usually reduced to insulting her house and accusing her of flower arranging to get her to leave."
Wordlessly, Hermione turned to Snape, profferring the bag. He took it from her.
"The Mandrake juice takes comparatively little time to prepare," he said distantly, and then looked at her. "If we begin now, it will be ready tonight. Unless for some reason you wish to wait?"
After all the time they had spent searching for a cure for their mutual condition, now that they had it in their hands Hermione felt oddly reluctant to say the words that would make it so, that would spell the end of this episode and send them back to their "normal" lives.
"It's not going to get any easier if we leave it," she said eventually. "We might as well do it now."
He nodded once, accepting her decision.
"Very well," he said simply. "Fetch me a size four silver cauldron."
Hermione obediently headed over to the stacked cauldrons; not the ones that the classes used, but Snape's own personal supply. Something else that, by tomorrow, would be back under his control. She selected the one that he wanted, the one that she always used when she needed a cauldron of that type. She took it over to him and noted that he was already preparing the mandrake root. Mature and cut, they still resembled ugly little humans, but without the squalling and the moving about they looked considerably more vegetal. Snape finished cleaning them off and then set a tall stand and clamp on the desk. He attached the roots to the clamps.
"Put the cauldron underneath," he instructed.
She did so. He adjusted the position fractionally, then selected a bone handled knife with a long silver blade. With one firm deep cut he sliced into the first mandrake root, along one of the many deep indentations. Hermione flinched very slightly, almost expecting blood. What came out was thick and green and began to drip and collect in the cauldron.
"Mandrake root is a plant" Snape said quietly. "The so called juice is a largely water based fluid secreted within the tubers. The fluid is drained out of the root and collected and used. It is a common process." He held the knife out to her. "I assume that you were watching me. Prepare the other root."
Knowing that it was irrational, Hermione took the knife rather tentatively. She grasped the second root as she had seen Snape do, eyed where she intended to make the cut, and drew the knife firmly along that line. The root presented more resistance than she was expecting; it was not unlike cutting into ginger. The comparison called her back to herself and she pressed with more force. The woody material parted and more green fluid began to fall into the cauldron. Silently, she watched her liberation pool and fill the shining silver container.
Once the roots had fully drained, Snape picked up the cauldron and placed it over a fire.
"It needs to be brought to the boil, then add a handful of chopped yarrow and a level teaspoon of powdered samphire. Allow it to simmer for thirty minutes, until the mixture has turned a rich crimson."
Which meant, she estimated that there were maybe thirty five minutes left of her existence as Snape.
They watched together as the green juice began to bubble, and as Snape added the final ingredients. The surface settled briefly, only disturbed by the tiny collections of froth round the rim, and then began to move and turn over on itself as the heat increased. A murmured word from Snape and the flames diminished under the cauldron. The liquid inside calmed and sank into the rhythmic movement of convection, hypnotic and oddly soothing. In the muted light of the dungeon, green turned to turquoise turned to purple turned to red turned to crimson. She was barely conscious of Snape murmuring something else beside her and the sudden cessation of heat that meant that the potion was ready.
"When it is cool enough, we will be able to drink it."
His voice sounded impersonal and detached. She looked at him and his face was equally blank. She knew him well enough now to know that he was concealing something.
"Severus?" she said uncertainly.
He didn't answer. What did you say to someone at a time like this? Perhaps nothing was best in the end. In silence they waited as the steam subsided and the metal of the cauldron became cool enough to touch comfortably. Without any further movement than to lift his wand, Snape muttered, "Accio goblets." Two goblets lifted themselves from the shelves at the back of the room, flew through the air and landed on the bench in front of her. Snape carefully lifted the still warm cauldron back onto the workbench and ladled out the dark red liquid; too thick to be cranberry juice, too bright to be blood.
Snape picked up both goblets and handed one to Hermione. She took it, curiously nervous.
"You are sure that this will work, aren't you?"
His glare seemed to lack conviction.
"I am the Potions Master," he reminded her with a hint of irony.
On an impulse, she shifted the goblet to her other hand and reached out to entwine her fingers with his; for reassurance, although whether she was giving or seeking she couldn't tell. He didn't pull away from the contact, his grip tightening around hers.
Together, they lifted their cups and drank.