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MetroVampire & Rhosymedre

Part 5 - Just Don't Give Away The Homeworld

Snape clearly seemed to think that his bare few sentences would enable to her to deal with the coming evening. She was inclined to disagree, and said so on their way to the Great Hall. With an air of long-suffering that made him sound exactly like a world-weary teenaged girl explaining something to an unusually slow parent, he began to tell her what she could expect.

Her lips twitched and she suppressed the urge to smile again; he was obviously completely unaware of the effect. So much the better for him.

"Although the headmaster described it as a staff meeting it is, in fact, the monthly Heads of House meeting, which at least means that you will have less people to deal with."

Less, but probably the hardest to fool, she thought, amusement fading.

"Pay attention," he hissed.

Gritting her teeth slightly, she returned her attention to the irritated Gryffindor by her side.

"As I said, you should be aware of some of the topics already - student discipline, special problems and, just for once, I do not recall that you or your friends form an item on the agenda."

That was one relief at least. No doubt it would give him enormous pleasure to think of her having to call for the expulsion of Harry and Ron for some reason. Purely in the interests of staying in character, of course.

"The meetings are in the headmaster's study and usually start about half an hour after dinner ends. The password is 'Licorice Comfits'. I suggest you use the time to familiarise yourself with the various topics." She had stowed the bundle of parchments outlining the agenda safely in her robes, which possessed considerably more pockets and other hiding places than her school ones did. She nodded in response to this.

"And there are definitely no special matters that need to be raised concerning Slytherin?" she asked, trying to sound more confident than she felt.

"No, Miss Granger," he said patiently, "not at this meeting. Just try not to make any commitments on behalf of the house if you can possibly help it. Slytherin is not the house to volunteer to organise a sponsored litter collection or a quilting bee."

"As you wish," she said shortly, nervous and tiring of his relentless sarcasm. Especially when it came packaged in her own voice. He looked at her.

"Miss Granger, other than the matter of Mrs Norris, it is extremely unlikely that you will have to offer up any kind of opinion this evening. If any difficult subjects are raised, no doubt the headmaster will steer the conversation to safer topics." His voice softened almost imperceptibly. "You should be able to survive the experience by simply sitting in the armchair closest to the fire and drinking every cup of tea that the headmaster gives you. Other than that, simply glare, grunt every now and then, and give the impression that you wish to be anywhere other than sitting in a staff meeting. I can't imagine that that should prove too difficult a task under the circumstances."

She cast him a swift glance. Was that a joke? His face was unreadable. Not that she had had that much practice at reading her own expressions of course. The moment passed, but she was still comforted by his reminder that Dumbledore would be there - the headmaster wouldn't let her make a mistake, she thought. All she had to do was get through the meeting and then she could collapse in... ah. Yes.

Snape had paused.

"Is there anything else, Miss Granger?"

Oh yes, indeed.

"Passwords," she said succinctly.

He looked a little nonplussed.

"Passwords," she repeated. "To be more specific, yours." His face darkened. "Well," she continued, trying to sound reasonable rather than panicky, "at the moment the only place that I have to sleep is the Head Girl's rooms. So you either tell me the passwords to your rooms, or I share with you and we can decide how to explain it to Harry and Ron in the morning."

She heard him stifle an audible choke. In a distinctly sulky mutter he informed her of the sequences which would enable her to enter his private quarters.

She felt a sudden flash of empathy for him. She intensely disliked the idea of him invading her personal space. The very private Potions Master must be finding it equally difficult to be forced to allow her almost unrestricted access to his life, even for a short time. She carefully kept her face still. This was not the moment to offer sympathy of any description.

And that just left the next ordeal to endure.

Dinner.

And her first official public appearance as Snape. If only from a distance.

Just as they were about to step into a more populated corridor, an awful thought occurred to her. She grabbed at his robe.

"Wait," she hissed, pulling him back.

He opened his mouth to protest, but she waved him silent without thinking.

She didn't see his mouth quirk faintly in something like approval.

"Is there anything you don't eat?"

Whatever he had been going to say died on his lips as he obviously began to think quickly.

"Shellfish of any description." Certainly not a problem there. Shellfish gave her the creeps. Alive or dead. "Muggle sweets." Bearable. He closed his eyes. "I really do not like pumpkin juice." Oh dear. Looks like water then. "And..." and here his voice took on a tone of deep and profound loathing "... broccoli."

She was a trifle taken aback at this and had to bite her lip to stop herself laughing out loud. She wondered what the innocent broccoli plant had ever done to Snape for him to hate it with such vehemence. One look at his face suggested that this was not the time for enquiry.

"I also do eat meat," he said, with a hint of malice. "I'm rather fond of it."

Typical!

She glared back at him and without a word swept into the corridor and joined the rest of the staff and students heading for the Great Hall.

She was concentrating so hard on keeping her posture bolt upright and her stride long and purposeful that she had to struggle not to yelp when her arm was taken in a friendly manner and a familiar voice said:

"Ah, Severus, splendid to see you."

Barely managing not to break stride, she found herself swept towards the High Table by the inexorable force that was Albus Dumbledore.

"Headmaster," she managed to get out by way of acknowledgement.

"All ready for our little meeting, tonight? Splendid, simply splendid," he repeated, not waiting for her to answer. "I trust that you had a productive afternoon?"

By this time she had been expertly manoeuvered into her seat by the elderly wizard. He now seemed to expect an answer to her question.

She nodded briefly, more to give herself time to think than anything else.

"It was... informative," was the best she could do.

"Splendid," said Dumbledore, yet again. "And it's beef wellington tonight as well. I know how much you like that." He clapped her on the back as he moved along the table to her left, to take his own place.

Hermione was deeply grateful for the clues that the headmaster was throwing in her direction but uncertain as to how to deal with the sudden excess of bonhomie radiating from the man. Her discomfort must have produced the right sort of effect though, for none of the staff gave her a second glance. Madam Hooch, her immediate neighbour to the left simply nodded a curt "Severus," at him in acknowledgment. She nodded in return, not quite certain what to say. This seemed to be all that Hooch expected for she immediately resumed her conversation with Sprout on her other side.

A house elf placed a steaming plate of pastry covered meat in front of her. Swallowing a little she reached for some mashed potatoes. She noted that the vegetables included carrots, sugar snap peas and broccoli. Good job he'd warned her, she thought. She quite liked broccoli.

Summoning her courage, she began to eat.

In the end dinner was not quite the ordeal she had expected. Once she began to eat, she discovered that she was really quite hungry. Fighting the urge to stuff herself, she discreetly helped herself to seconds and then began to pick idly at a plate of roast potatoes until pudding arrived. She noticed that no one really looked at her. If she did happen to accidentally catch someone's eye they hastily found something else to occupy their interest.

Sipping at her water, her gaze was pulled to the Gryffindor table and that spot about half way down where she always sat. He was at least in the right place, she thought with relief. She assumed that he'd had the sense to follow Ron. Unless Dumbledore had managed to pull another steering trick. He looked stiff, too stiff and she tried not to be horrified at the amount of food he was eating. Ron and Harry were talking about something across him - Quidditch would be a safe bet - and across the table she could see Neville's earnest face saying something.

Probably asking what had happened after the class had been dismissed and had Snape been really horrid to her? She hoped he would at least try to be nice to him.

The irony was that ordinarily she would regard eating at the High Table as an honour. Right now though, she was mechanically eating her pudding and trying not to wish too hard that she were with her friends.

Eventually dinner ended and she needed to find a quiet space to read. The dungeons were too far and she didn't quite feel up to the staff room. As everybody filed out, she stood up, gathered her robes around her and tried to stride out of the room as if she had pressing business elsewhere. No one sought to detain her - in fact the students parted in front of her allowing her to leave with ease.

Remembering that she was close to a rarely used passageway - a useful discovery made on a midnight excursion with Harry and Ron a year or so ago - she detached herself from the crowds and managed to find a deserted room. Hastily locking and warding the door behind her she settled herself to read.

Too soon her half an hour was up and, steeling herself, she headed for Dumbledore's office, muttering the password at the sleepy gargoyle. She was willing to bet that Snape was the punctual type.

The door to the headmaster's office swung open before she could knock.

"Severus," came the cheerful voice from inside, "do come in and join us."

Inside the office five squashy armchairs were now grouped around the fire. In the centre was a low table with a tray on it. On the tray stood a large teapot and five cups. Professor McGonagall was standing by the table, watching the pot as it obligingly poured itself.

She stood there, trying to project the effortless authority of the Head of Slytherin.

"Have a seat, Severus, do."

What had he said? The armchair closest to the fire?

She seated herself next to the fire and nodded at Dumbledore.

"Headmaster."

"Tea?"

She nodded again, remembering how he had taken it in her room.

"Black."

She supposed that at some point she should try communicating in more than nods and single words. However, Professor McGonagall failed to comment. She simply looked at him a little sourly and seated herself.

Maybe Snape really didn't get more eloquent that this.

"I suppose that it's pointless asking if you have any views on the draft consultation paper, Severus." This from McGonagall.

My whole attendance here is pointless, she thought, reflecting wryly that it was a very Snape-ish thought. I wonder...

She gave voice to thought, infusing her tone with as much boredom as she could.

McGonagall snorted.

"You would say that," she snapped, "just because you have no interest in..."

Dumbledore cut across her happily, thus saving her from sinking in the unexpected quicksand of inter-house politics. Hermione made a mental note to have a long chat with Snape about this.

"Now, now, Minerva, let's save this for everyone. We don't want anyone to be left out now."

He seemed to twinkle in Hermione's direction and she was just feeling quite pleased with herself when another thought struck her. Severus. Minerva. Albus. She was supposed to be on first name terms with these people. She struggled to remember Professor Flitwick's name. Frederick... no. Frank... Philip... Filius... that was it. But what the hell was Professor Sprout's name?

The meeting managed to be both boring and terrifying at the same time. The mystery of Professor Sprout's given name was solved by an enthusiastic "Ermengarde!" from the headmaster, as she walked in. After that Hermione was swept along in the endless details that made up the running of a school. The knowledge that that Snape would expect to be fully informed kept her attention focussed. Even so the meeting seemed interminable.

It appeared that looking disinterested and grunting was indeed what everyone expected of the Head of Slytherin. For the better part of the meeting her sole contribution was to drink the tea from the seemingly bottomless teapot.

Finally Dumbledore moved to close the meeting and Hermione had just begun to relax when McGonagall's sharp Scottish accent sounded again.

"Excuse me, headmaster. I believe we have one more topic to discuss."

Mrs Norris. Hermione closed her eyes. She had been hoping against hope that it had been overlooked. Obviously not. Her heart sank and she tried not to groan out loud.

"Well, I'm sorry, Severus, if this affects your favourite, but it is a matter of some importance to me."

Filch? A favourite?

"I can assure you, Minerva, that Filch is very far from being a favourite anything of mine." She carefully let something of her genuine heartfelt distaste for the thought make it into her voice and face, pleased that she had managed to use Professor McGonagall's given name without hesitation.

McGonagall simply snorted.

"As you are aware," she began, "Several nights ago, I was checking the corridors of the school when I was attacked by... that cat." She shuddered and was about to launch into a detailed description when Dumbledore intervened.

"Minerva, I think we all know what happened. Shall we invite Argus in and see what he has to say?"

There was another indignant noise from the Head of Gryffindor. Hermione tried to look suitably uninterested, but then noted that both Flitwick and Sprout seemed to be intently studying Dumbledore's choice of decor. For a moment she wondered why that would be, until it dawned on her that they were trying not to look amused. The small part of her that was not completely terrified was surprised by the thought that this might just be fun.

Her attention was jerked back to the present by the entrance of a mutinous looking Argus Filch, clearly prepared to defend his ghastly feline to the death. He smoothed back his ratty hair, simply managing to make himself look more unsavoury. Next to Filch, she thought, Snape looked positively groomed.

"Well, Mr Filch," began Dumbledore kindly, "I think you know why I have asked you to come today. We are all aware of the recent unfortunate... ah... encounter between Mrs Norris and Professor McGonagall."

"Encounter?" screeched the Head of Gryffindor in outraged tones. "I was viciously set upon by that cat, if it is a cat. If I didn't know better I would think it was some dangerous beast charmed to look like a cat."

Filch began to bristle.

"Well, what's my poor dear girl supposed to do, eh? There she is, patrolling as she normally does, and a fine job of it she does as well, when she comes across some strange cat where it's not supposed to be. Of course she's going to defend her territory. It's only natural."

"That cat should be banned from the school buildings," muttered McGonagall darkly.

"And who would catch the students when they're up to no good?" demanded Filch. "You agree with me don't you, Professor Snape? You've always said as how you'd be lost without her."

Hermione, who was beginning to enjoy the exchange, realised suddenly that she was being addressed. She started a little and tried to cover it with a hmph. The same small part of her now pointed out that this was her golden opportunity to get at Filch with no possibility of retribution.

"This has nothing to do with me, Filch. I have absolutely no intention of getting involved in a cat fight of any description." Snape's voice was inordinately well suited to that kind of remark, she noted. She also could have sworn that she heard Flitwick make a noise which hastily became a sneeze. Another question had arisen in her mind and she wondered if she could push her luck just a fraction more....

"Out of curiosity," she remarked to the air in general, "who did actually win?" This time it was Sprout who developed a nasty cough, while McGonagall looked furious and rubbed her right ear a little self-consciously. Filch's obsequious demeanour shaded into triumph.

"Yes, well," Dumbledore said smoothly, "I'm sure that Mrs Norris will recognise Professor McGonagall in the future and vice versa. Perhaps you could... ah...keep her in for the next couple of nights though, Argus? Good." He beamed. "Thank you for coming."

With that the greasy caretaker slid out of the room, leaving behind a fuming McGonagall who was shooting poisonous looks at Hermione. Hermione, herself, was busy trying to concentrate on feeling guilty about shamelessly baiting her own Head of House.

With the departure of Filch, however, the meeting was finally over. McGonagall stalked out muttering under her breath in Gaelic. Sprout and Flitwick were openly chuckling. Hermione moved to follow them out, but Dumbledore laid a hand on her arm to keep her back. When the room was empty he smiled at her.

"Well done, my dear. I don't think they noticed a thing."

She smiled back.

"Well, I think it helps that Professor Snape is ..." an insufferable bastard... she amended hastily, "well, he isn't very chatty."

"No." He was looking at her with an odd, wistful expression on his face.

"Is there something wrong, headmaster?" That was almost automatic after the meeting.

"No, no. It's just that it's been an awfully long time since I saw Severus smile." He shook himself. "Ignore a maudlin old man, Miss Granger. You did very well this evening."

He showed her to the door and she walked off down the corridor, the stride becoming already more practised and carefully not thinking about the implications of that last remark.

She left the headmaster's private quarters and was about to head for her... his... rooms, when something struck her. She was beginning to feel the inevitable physiological consequences of a sedentary evening spent drinking tea.

She needed to use the bathroom.

Immediately.

She knew where the staff toilets were, arrived there not too indecorously, and even remembered first time to go into the gents.

Where she stood transfixed at the sight in front of her.

On the wall in front of her were a number of gleaming white porcelain... well... basins were the only word for them. Except that they had no taps and had rather higher backs than you would expect. They had holes in them but no plugs. And they were definitely at... well... that height up the wall. Groin height.

To one side was a small stool. She fought to keep the image of Professor Flitwick out of her mind. And as for Hagrid....

No. No. No. Nononononononono.

She could not use one of those. Not.

The pressure from her bladder reminded her that she needed to find a solution. Preferably one that did not involve wetting herself.

She bolted for a cubicle and locked the door. She fumbled with the unfamiliar robes until she could finally sit on the - normal - toilet and relieve herself. All the time steadfastly not looking down.

Gods. Oh Gods.

She put her head into her slightly shaking hands.

After a while she found that her mind had formed a surprisingly vivid picture of Neville Longbottom suffering a lingering and frightful torment. She wondered if the Slytherin blood currently supplying her brain was beginning to influence her thought processes. She was absolutely convinced that one to one tuition from Snape was the least that Neville deserved for inflicting this torture on her.

Finally, she sat upright again, stood and adjusted her robes. This was no good. She had to pull herself together. Leaving the cubicle, she washed her hands and left the toilets to run almost straight into Snape himself.

He saw where she had been and an eyebrow quirked slightly.

She fixed him with a glare that would have impressed a basilisk.

"I do not want to talk about it," she spat.