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MetroVampire & Rhosymedre

Part 39 - Will The Real Hermione Granger Please Step Forward?

Hermione just managed to prevent her dash through the corridors of the school from turning into headlong flight. At least, that's what she told herself. Anyone seeing her could imagine that the Head Girl had simply forgotten an important meeting, or an essay that needed another few inches adding to it before the morning. They wouldn't necessarily know that her world had been turned inside out - in an unusually literal sense - once again. She hurried on, clinging to her internal litany for dear life: I will get back to my rooms; they will not see me cry.

He will not see me cry.

The castle seemed to be with her; the staircases co-operated and she managed to make it back to her rooms without encountering anyone who might have a reason to actually stop her, rather than just give her a curious look. She disarmed the wards and let the door slam shut behind her. Breathing heavily she leant back against it, eyes closed, just for the moment allowing herself to be supported by its comforting solidity. And only then did she allow herself to think of what she had done in the corridor outside the Headmaster's study.

She had kissed Professor Snape.

This time there was no confusion about identites; no ambiguity about exactly who it was she was kissing. This was her, mind and body, and she had kissed him; also mind and body.

She had kissed Professor Snape.

And it had been so sweet and so right and she had wanted the moment never to end. She had wanted to share something; to validate the memories, the feelings, the passion. She had wanted to touch him and reassure him and thank him. She had wanted to know his taste; to feel him from the outside, to reach up into him. She had wanted so many things.

She had kissed Professor Snape.

No, she thought, she had kissed Severus. The man, not the master.

It had felt like flying.

It had felt like farewell.

And now she was back in her rooms - her life - again. She opened her eyes. If ever there was a moment that she deserved a bout of tears this was it; her throat was tight and aching but, oddly, the tears wouldn't come. She looked around, imagining Snape here, moving around, using her things. She detached herself from the door, fighting the feeling that it was the only thing holding her up, and slowly took a few steps into the room, re-learning her own environment. She carefully made her way to her desk, casting her eye over the neatly stacked scrolls and books. Her coloured timetable hadn't been moved and she noted that he had kept to her rather idiosyncratic filing system. After all these months it should have come as no surprise to her that he had been able to comprehend the way in which she organised her thoughts, but the awareness of shared understanding sent a pang through her and brought again the feeling of something lost. There was a dull patch on the desk where the arms of countless Head Girls had rested as they worked. She absently touched it; not even the best efforts of the house elves had succeeded in restoring the shine. She imagined Snape sitting here, reading over the day's lessons and notes; never mind that in all probability he had done no such thing - most of his work - their work - had been done together in the dungeons. To visualise him in her surroundings made her feel a little less alone.

Leaving the desk she stepped over to the bed. The orange puddle of fur that was Crookshanks opened a sleepy eye and gazed at her, appearing to be singularly unmoved by the return of his mistress in her proper form. Evidently, he and Snape had reached an accommodation during their enforced intimacy, she thought wryly; like mistress, like familiar. Having apparently satisfied himself as to her identity, Crookshanks got up and stretched himself thoroughly. He presented his head for the expected scratch and then walked around on the spot a few times before settling down into a position that was indistinguishable from his previous one. He closed his eyes and, to all outward appearances, went back to sleep.

Still, her eyes were dry.

"Fair enough," she said resignedly. It looked like she was going to be denied the indulgence of a good cry. She sighed. And when lost for something to do ....

She went back over to her bookcase, now looking rather thin and empty compared with the abundant luxury of Snape's. Another pang shot through her, not simply for the books, but for the loss of someone to discuss them with; her conversational partners were back to Harry and Ron and Lavender and Parvati. She tried to feel happy that she would be able to talk with her friends again, but could only wonder if Snape would still let her use his books if she asked him. Skimming the - to her eyes - meagre selection, she spotted one that she had been intending to start, just before all this had happened.

Without thinking, she reached up to take it off the top shelf and blinked as her hand stopped several inches short of the spine. Snape was tall enough to reach the book without standing on a chair; Hermione was not and never had been. That realisation, that simple practical reinforcement of her altered position froze her as abruptly as the reverse had in her first days as Snape.

Memory and longing and loss flooded in on her and finally the tears began to fall.

__

In the end, Hermione slept better than she had been expecting. Her emotional outburst the night before - intense and prolonged when it finally came - had released much of the tension and fear that had built up over the recent past. She had fallen into a heavy sleep and woken with a fuzzy head and a lingering melancholy and a faint sense of relief that today was a school day, which would give her things to do to stop her dwelling on her current situation. It wasn't until she rolled over that it suddenly occurred to her that she was only wearing her knickers. Months of sleeping as Snape had led her to simply strip off her robes and crawl into bed, and exhaustion had sent her to sleep almost immediately, without registering her near-naked state. Lying there, she realised that she felt no pressing desire to locate her nightdress.

Habit pulled her out of bed and towards the shower; smaller than Snape's, but also stocked with a considerably wider selection of cosemtics and other preparations. One thing that she would definitely not miss was having to wash in household soap. She was also still half-naked - she hadn't felt the need to find her dressing gown either; one of things she appeared to have gained from this experience was a new comfort with her own body. And considering what she had actually done with her own body .... Not to mention Snape's. She grinned as she stripped off her knickers and stepped into the shower.

Hogwarts' hot water system was as reliable as ever. She tilted her head back and let the water hit her forehead, streaming through her hair, running down the small of her back and over her buttocks, channelling into the cleft and trickling down the backs of her legs. She reached out with one hand and picked one of the plain glass bottles nestling in the small recess set into the wall. Remembering Snape's slightly embarrassed confession about his little sideline, she pulled the stopper out and sniffed curiously. A tang of herbs hit her nostrils; rosemary and thyme, she thought, and maybe something else that she couldn't quite identify. It smelt good. She poured a generous dollop onto her hand and, replacing the bottle in the recess, began to massage it into her hair. As she worked, the hot water released the oils, surrounding her with a fragrant steam that was herbal without being medicinal and which somehow managed to clear and freshen her mind. She stood with her eyes closed for a few minutes, just letting the water rinse away the last of the mixture, revelling the fact that - with the exception of the few surreptitious hair washes that she sneaked in over Christmas - this was the first time since September that she had been able to use real, genuine, actual shampoo on her hair.

Even that experience was now overlain with thoughts of Snape.

With some anticipation, she selected what appeared to be conditioner - who could have predicted that he would think of conditioner as well? This was paler in colour and when she opened it the familiar scent of rosemary was overlain by the floral notes of lavender and exotic threads of cedar and coconut. Again, she poured some into her hands and then rubbed them together. She began to run her hands through her hair, automatically teasing at the tangles with her fingers; experience had taught her that this was the only way that she would ever get a brush through her hair later. Except that this time the knots seemed to melt away leaving her hair to fall heavily across her shoulders. Wonderingly, she worked the conditioner in and then twisted her hair up onto her head, out of the way.

With considerable enthusiasm she picked up the soap and sniffed at it. She was met with an aroma of honey, with light overtones of almond; simple and sensuous; more so even than the conditioner. When applied to her body it produced a rich, creamy lather, sweetly scented but not cloying. She ran her hands over her arms, feeling her own skin for the first time since - well, that night with him. She closed her eyes again, imagining him, here every morning, running his hands over her skin, except that he wasn't her, he was him and he was touching her, smoothing honey over her, oil over her, himself over her. Her hands followed the path of her imagination, over the tops of her arms, over her breasts, around her nipples, circling her stomach, her buttocks, the inside of her thighs, higher and closer to the small hot point between her legs. Did it feel different, that centre of her? Her fingers moved higher, brushing the sensitive skin, grazing her folds, exploring, probing. And it was the same; it was not her body that had changed but herself. She reached out with one hand to support herself on the wall as she continued to stroke, with the water falling on her back and curtaining to the floor and her mind and heart and senses full of the aromas that he had brought to her body and to her life. Breathing his name like a forbidden thought, she clenched and released and almost convinced herself that the water on her face was simply from the shower spray.

Eventually, she sat in front of her mirror, last of the conditioner rinsed out of her hair, a fine layer of moisturiser - another delicate Snape creation of mallow and rose - applied to her face and her hair tamed and neatly pulled back into a clip. The conditioner had been as effective as promised, her hair was gleaming and soft and tangle-free for perhaps the first time in eighteen years. There was a certain irony that it had taken Snape to achieve it. She smiled faintly.

Yes, that was it. Concentrate on the irony, the wry humour of the situation, the imagined looks on the faces of friends and staff if they knew who they had been speaking to for the last six months. Build the defences carefully and firmly. No one must suspect anything, for the situation is almost as dangerous now as it was before.

The latter thought came half-unawares; insidiously filtering through her mind, telling her that the danger had not yet passed; that if Voldemort came into possession of the information he could still inflict untold damage on the cause of The Light. Not to mention upon Snape himself.

It made her uncomfortable and it didn't chime with her current aim of ironic detachement with a shot of wry humour. It was something that she probably needed to speak to Snape about, she thought. Later.

At the moment the best cure for early morning introspection seemed like food; after all it couldn't be that hard to pick up where she left off. It was her life after all; it was not as though she was pretending to be someone else any more.

__

Unfortunately, Hermione found that settling back into her life was considerably more difficult that she had anticipated. Even simple things like breakfast required more concentration that she was expecting. Never one for early morning conversation - in either incarnation - her silence had gone unremarked by Harry and Ron, who just carried on around her. This had, in fact, turned out to be rather fortunate as she had absently reached to take a slice of bacon from the loaded platter. However, with no expectation that she would be remotely interested in it - wasn't she supposed to be a vegetarian? - Ron had simply leant straight across her to take it from Harry. Hermione had retained enough presence of mind to abort the gesture and to redirect it towards the pumpkin juice and pour herself a glass.

And that was another thing; pumpkin juice. Her first taste of it in six months - Snape had been quite clear about his preferences in that direction - and in those six months she had become accustomed to a good cup of strong coffee in the morning. She sipped her milky tea, trying to pretend that it was Snape's hot syrupy espresso and reminding herself to pay attention.

At first her classes gave her little difficulty. Snape's presentation of her had obviously been sufficiently convincing to forestall any comments from the staff. His notes had kept her up to date with the work and Arithmancy passed without any incidents beyond the usual muttered queries from Neville, sotto voce asides from Harry and elaborate grimaces from Ron. Herbology was equally uneventful and, despite some regret that she was no longer able to tell her classmates to pay attention, keep quiet and stop messing about - and enforce it - by the time the bell sounded for the end of morning lessons, Hermione thought she could begin to relax.

She seated herself next to Harry at the Gryffindor table and remembered to take a good helping of vegetable stew although she still regretted the absence of coffee. She was expecting Ron or Neville to take the place on the other side, but instead the odour of food was temporarily banished by a cloud of something that spoke strongly of too much Patchouli.

"Hi, Hermione," said Lavender breathlessly. "Have you got a minute?"

Hermione had just taken a mouthful of stew, and having been brought up by Mr and Mrs Granger not to talk with her mouth full, had no time to come up with a reply before Lavender hurried on.

"It's just that I've run out of that cleanser that you make and I really want to take some home at Easter and I wondered when you'd have another batch ready? Oh, and Parvati wants some of her shampoo as well."

By now, Hermione had managed to swallow.

"Um," she said non-committally, not entirely sure how enthusiastic Snape would be about letting her continue to make the cosmetics once he had his workspace back; she didn't even contemplate that he might care to do it himself. "I'm not sure. Can I let you know?"

"Yeah, but can you do it really soon. I know the other girls want some things and I said I'd tell them what you said."

"The other girls?" she asked, feeling stupid. How many of them were there?

"You know - Susan, Hannah, Sally-Anne, Mandy, Morag - everyone. And of course Pansy and Millicent and the Slytherin crowd who don't really want to be seen talking to you." Lavender looked puzzled. "Are you all right, Hermione? You don't really seem like yourself today."

Hermione swallowed again, this time to suppress the ball of hysterical laughter that threatened to emerge at the question.

"I'm fine," she managed. "Just thinking about Transfiguration this afternoon."

Obviously Snape had maintained the "academic preoccupation" aspect of her character. Lavender nodded mournfully and launched into a lament about the impossibility of transfiguring a raven into a writing desk. Hermione finished her lunch, only half-listening to Lavender's voice, and preventing herself from glancing at the staff table in search of Snape. She was looking forward to the afternoon; Transfiguration had been one of her best classes and after her coaching she was confident that Snape had not had too great an impact on her marks. She munched idly on an apple; the return to her own metabolism meant that she had to be more cautious about what she ate. Snape could apparently eat anything and stay whipcord thin; she was not so lucky.

"So you'll get the stuff to us soon?" Lavender's voice broke in on her thoughts. She blinked. Lavender had abandoned Transfiguration and returned to the safer topic of personal grooming.

"Yes. Yes, I will," she confirmed.

"Brilliant." There was a pause. "Oh, and Parvati and I were thinking of doing another girls' night." She shrugged. "You interested?"

Hermione nearly choked again and was on the point of saying no, when it suddenly occurred to her that Snape had actually gone to one of these. Which presumably meant that she ....

"Um, yes. That would be great," she said. "Let me know when it is."

Lavender nodded happily and shot off.

Great, thought Hermione. Before, I was just pretending to be Snape. Now, I'm pretending to be Snape pretending to be me. Will the real Hermione Granger please stand up?

As it happened, she had to stand up, real or otherwise, unless she wanted to be late for class. Harry next to her was deep in conversation with Seamus. She tuned into the conversation long enough to hear the words "offside rule" and tuned out again.

"I'm going up to my room to get my stuff for this afternoon," she said to Harry, who grunted an acknowledgement without turning round; little short of a direct attack from an enraged rabid wyvern could distract Harry from a serious conversation about Quidditch. Hermione felt oddly warmed the familiarity of the scene; it actually made her feel more at home than anything else. Snape would laugh at that, she thought as she adjusted her wand in her sleeve. And froze.

Her wand. Or more to the point his wand.

They hadn't thought to exchange wands the night before and she strongly doubted that a helpful house-elf had done the job whilst she slept. Carefully, she released the wand enough for her to be able to touch it. The heavier weight and the slightly sluggish feel told her that she still had Snape's wand. She knew that she was able to perform transfigurations with his wand, but she was nowhere near as confident as she was with her own, and besides, for all she knew, he needed his wand. She rather guiltily recalled that his cut-throat razor was now an attractive safety one. There was no help for it; she looked at the staff table to see Snape rise and head out of the Hall. Taking a deep breath she moved to intercept him. He was striding purposefully away from her, robes sweeping behind him, attention wholly focussed elsewhere. The distance between them was increasing and, unless she wanted to run after him, she was going to have to shout.

"Professor Snape!"

He paused but did not turn. It gave her a chance to catch up with him.

"Professor Snape," she repeated in a quieter voice. "Can I speak with you?"

He arched a disdainful eyebrow.

"You appear to be able to do so quite adequately. Is that your only question, or do you have another reason for bellowing down the corridor like a wounded troll?"

Hermione bit back the response that sprang to mind, and simply said: "Wands, sir."

"Wands, Miss Granger?"

He obviously hadn't had the need to use his wand that morning.

"You have my wand," she clarified and was gratified to see consternation flicker across his face for a moment.

"Follow me," he said curtly.

He led her into a quiet corridor and then proffered his - her - wand to her.

"As you cast the spells," he said quietly, his voice lacking the bite that it had in the more public arena of the corridor.

Taking her own wand back, she quickly reversed the charms and handed him his wand. He inclined his head briefly in acknowledgement.

"Thank you, Miss Granger." He turned to leave and then paused briefly. "Oh, and Miss Granger - five points from Gryffindor for shrieking like a banshee."

Bastard, she thought affectionately, as she watched his figure retreat.

__

Evening found her making her way down to the dungeons with something that felt a lot like relief. The effort of playing the role of Severus Snape was apparently nothing compared to the effort of playing the role of Hermione Granger. Ease and relaxation had not turned out to be part of the game plan. Her back ached with the effort of carrying books around, her temper was ragged from the frustrated desire to deduct large numbers of house points and assign detentions and her head ached abominably. She was going to have to get some of Snape's willowbark and valerian infusion before she could make any sensible contribution to the night's work.

She reached the familiar doors and had said the password and entered before she realised that her resumed role meant that she should have knocked first. Oh well, Snape had hardly ever bothered to knock either.

Snape was sitting at his desk, eyebrow raised at her entrance.

"Do come in, Miss Granger," he said with a hint of irony.

She muttered an apology and dumped her bag on the floor. She headed towards the store cupboard, intent on finding some pain relief.

"I've got a dreadful headache," she explained, searching the shelves, "and I really need ...."

"... this?" he finished for her.

She jumped. He had managed to leave his desk and come up behind her without making a sound. She turned to face him and saw that he was offering her a steaming mug of coffee. The smell wrapped itself around her frayed nerve endings promising peace, joy and happiness. Gratefully, she took it and sipped. The taste curled through her, infusing her cells with a sense of deep well-being that coalesced to a point of bliss somewhere near the base of her skull. She closed her eyes and sank into a chair.

"Of course," remarked Snape, in his best professorial tone, "the effect is purely psychological."

She opened one eye to glare.

"It doesn't feel like a psychological headache to me," she said.

"The headache is probably mainly due to tension, but I anticipate that you will have had no coffee today. Although your body has never become accustomed to caffeine itself, your experience in my body has trained your mind to expect ill-effects from deprivation and to believe that those ill-effects will be alleviated by further consumption. Hence the fact that a cup of coffee has cured your headache."

"You mean I've inherited your coffee addiction?"

His mouth twitched into a half-smile.

"So it would seem, Hermione."

The coffee, the smile, her name; they all made her profoundly grateful to be there. To be somewhere where she could be herself. She was silent, cradling her mug and staring into the depths like Trelawney seeking a vision.

"It was harder than I thought," she said after a while. Snape had settled himself back behind his desk. He didn't say anything but she knew that he was listening. "I thought it would be easy, going back to being me. After all, that's what I've been doing for the last eighteen years or so - being me. Except that it still felt like I was pretending. Like I was acting the part of Hermione Granger. I couldn't really say what I thought or do what I wanted to do because that wasn't what Hermione Granger would do." She struggled to put words to the thoughts. "I had to think 'what would Hermione do' in the same way that I had to think 'what would Professor Snape do'. I couldn't think what I would do."

Snape was quiet for so long that she thought he had gone back to marking essays, but then he spoke.

"We all of us act in some way, Hermione. I do. You do, Professor Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall, Mr Potter, Mr Weasley, Mr Malfoy, even Mr Longbottom. None of us are entirely what we show the world. The key is to know that; to know that we are more than the reflections of the beliefs of others.

Hermione looked at him; his face was shadowed in the lights of the dungeon, but the intensity was tangible.

"That's a lovely sentiment," she said quietly.

"It is," he agreed. "I read it somewhere and I've been waiting for the chance to use it in conversation ever since."

His voice was deadpan and the moment of tension was gone. She laughed softly, sensing that now was not the moment to pursue the line of thought.

"Fair enough," she said, matching his tone. "I'll stop worrying about the existentialist implications of it all and just get on with it."

"A commendable decision," he noted dryly and then added "if it makes you feel any better, today has not been without its - moments of interest - for me. And I have been accustomed to playing the role of Professor Snape for a very long time."