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MetroVampire & Rhosymedre

Part 6 - Yesterday Once More

Snape sat and stared at the fire, the book lying in his lap forgotten. It had been mostly there to dissuade the other Gryffindors in the common room from disturbing him, and was easy to forget.

Behind him he could hear a dozen conversations crossing over each other, from the extraordinarily mundane dissection of the Chudley Cannon's latest game to a bizarre conversation about ... well, he wasn't entirely certain, but he thought perhaps that Brown and Patil - no, he reminded himself, think of them as Lavender and Parvati - were discussing cosmetics. He shuddered to himself, suddenly profoundly grateful that, given that fate insisted on playing hopscotch through his life, it had been Hermione Granger to share that fate rather than one of those two. Or Potter. Or Longbottom.

The fire licked up around a recently added log; the bark caught aflame first and spat with a sudden vehemence. The flames danced upwards, riding the currents of air, licking through the slowly charring wood as they rose from the glowing red embers above the growing mound of ashes.

"... Hermione. Hermione, are you awake?"

Snape looked up, away from the fire, startled by the hand shaking his shoulder. Weasley - Ron - stood beside the armchair, frowning.

"You were miles away, Hermione, what were you thinking about? I've had to call your name three times already - do you want a game of chess?"

Grateful for ... Ron's barrelling speech that asked a question and then allowed no time for an answer before heading into the next, Snape thought for a moment. He thought perhaps he could get away with refusing - dinner had established that "Hermione" was still feeling the aftereffects of the accident in the Potions room earlier that day. He really did not feel like trying to work out how Hermione played chess; if this was a regular part of evenings in the common room, he supposed that he should make sure that they played a couple of games over the weekend so that he could work out her style.

"Not now, Ron. I'm ... tired; I need to see, uh, McGonagall before I go to bed, in any case. I'd better go now."

Ron grinned. "Looks like you're getting awfully familiar, Hermione. Being Head Girl going to your head is it?" Snape frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"Don't think I've ever heard you call old McGonagall anything but 'Professor McGonagall'. It's about time you came down to the level of the rest of us!" The grin on the boy's face widened.

Snape winced inwardly; of course Hermione would use the proper title for her teachers. At least he hadn't referred to McGonagall as Minerva. That would have been too much even for Weasley to accept. He got up and waved a hand irritably.

"It was a mistake. I told you, I'm tired. See you at breakfast."

"Sure, see you." Weasley headed back to Potter and the others, all still apparently discussing the Cannons. Snape smothered a sigh of relief; no awkward questions this time. It wasn't far beyond the truth, either. Keeping up the pretence of being Hermione Granger was almost more wearing than a meeting with Voldemort; trying to remember how Miss Granger behaved - when, in truth, he had paid very little attention to her outside the classroom. Even in the classroom he'd been concerned with matters other than her general demeanour.

Snape left the common room, heading out through the Fat Lady into the corridors of Hogwarts. Clearly, he had no need to go and see McGonagall - Professor McGonagall; he reminded himself, again, to use the proper title even in his thoughts. He simply hadn't been able to take being in the common room any longer; the conversations were nothing he was prepared to take a risk on being involved with, and the longer he remained there, the more tense he became - not only worried about making a slip himself, but also wondering how Hermione was dealing with the staff meeting. Dumbledore would probably steer her if necessary but, all the same, his own life depended upon her acting ability.

The cause of half his tension had been dinner; thankfully he had spent enough dinners gazing around the hall to be well aware of where he would be expected to sit to eat; even if he hadn't been, Weasley's urging would have told him all he needed to know. Picking through vegetables and having to pass up on the meat piled on serving plates was hard to deal with, though. Fortunately, this body appeared to be quite happy with the quantity of vegetables and potatoes he'd fed it - his mind was less convinced that he'd had a proper meal, though.

Perhaps it was less the food than the surroundings - the incessant chatter and inane questions had not helped in the slightest. It had started with Longbottom's earnest questions, hoping that 'she' was alright, that 'Snape' hadn't been too unpleasant. Potter had chimed in, with Weasley passing unhelpful comments about Potions classes. Snape had barely managed to avoid snarling back at them, settling instead for a non-commital comment that he was fine, just tired, that he had had to help clear up the classroom. None of the boys appeared to find it odd that Hermione had been the one to clear up, rather than Neville, whose cauldron had been responsible for the mess.

Snape dragged his mind back to the present; he'd been wandering aimlessly through the corridors, and found that he had made his way towards the Headmaster's rooms. He wondered again how the meeting had gone, then was momentarily startled by a door opening just in front of him. He started to edge past, not inclined to be caught peering into the staff toilets, when he realised that he was ... no, Hermione was coming out of the mens toilets. A flicker of amusement crossed his face as he realised how much tea she had probably had to drink through the meeting. This was usually his first port of call after staff meetings as well. There was little else do but drink tea whilst the other members of staff whittered on, taking twice as long - if not longer - as actually necessary to dispatch the business of the meeting.

Hermione glared at him; she really was getting better at that expression, he thought.

"I do not want to talk about it," she said, the words pratically spat out. Snape suddenly understood the implications - and almost smiled at her discomfort until he abruptly noticed that, presumably by auto-suggestion, he was faced with the same need.

"Fine," he answered shortly. "Anything I need to know about the meeting?"

"No," sighed Hermione, "it went much the way you said it would." She glanced at her watch. "And you need to get back to Gryffindor unless you want a detention for being out after hours," she added, with a hint of delighted malice in her voice.

This time it was Snape's turn to glare, although he had been aware that he needed to get back - and not just because it was late. He wasn't sure where the nearest girls' toilets were, and suspected that he'd prefer the privacy of the Head Girl's bathroom anyway. He turned and walked away rapidly; a moment later, he heard a measured stride heading in the opposite direction.

Half an hour later, Snape looked at the bed in Hermione's room with some trepidation. The cat didn't appear to have moved since the last time he was in the room, and looked no more inclined to leave the bed. Snape frowned, then decided that direct action was probably the best option; approaching the bed he tried to remember the cat's name.

"Crook ... Crookshanks, that's it. Crookshanks, move." The command had little effect, beyond the lazy opening of a single eye. Half a blink later, the cat seemed as asleep as ever. Snape stood now beside the bed; perhaps even more direct action?

The more direct action worked, and Crookshanks headed for the armchair by the fire - now little more than a collection of glowing ashes - as Snape headed back to the bathroom to find something to clean the scratches on his arm. He still hadn't quite got to grips with Hermione's wand, despite surreptitiously practising earlier in the evening. Fortunately the wand didn't react badly to his use; it simply didn't seem to work particularly well. Some more practice should deal with the problem, and he planned to wake early in order to do so.

He opened the cabinet above the sink, pulling the door open with rather more force than was actually needed. Muttering to himself, trying to fathom out how he was going to deal with the cat on a day to day basis, Snape looked at the assorted bottles and tubes in the cabinet. Most of them were completely unfamiliar, clearly Muggle mixtures for ... he looked a little more closely, curious as to what they contained.

Chanel seemed to be the manufacturer - too many bottles and tubes with the name on for them all to be the same thing. He picked one up to look more closely. 'Lait Tendre. Dˇmaquillant doux visage et yeux'. Gentle milk; makeup remover face and eyes. Snape put the tube down hastily, thankful that Hermione didn't wear makeup - although he did wonder why she had a tube of makeup remover, in that case. Similarly, why she didn't simply use one of the multitude of charms apparently available for the purpose - at least, that was what he thought Brown and - no, Lavender and Parvati - had been discussing.

Snape berated himself for a moment, trying to drive in the need to refer to students by their first names - even in his mind. For this to succeed, he needed to think like Miss Granger, little though that appealed. The wrong name would be harder to explain than many other errors. He distracted himself by looking again for something to clean the scratches, although these had largely dried by now. Nothing obvious came to hand, so he resorted to water alone, aware that he was tired.

Returning to the room, Snape noted that Crookshanks had remained in the chair. One less battle for the evening, at least. He drew back the covers on the bed and discovered an internal battle. Under the covers was a handful of cotton; Miss Granger obviously wore nightclothes. Logical, really. As Head Girl there was a chance she would be awoken to deal with school issues, and she apparently hadn't learnt the relevant spells to dress in less time than it took to awake. It didn't occur to him that Hermione mught actually prefer to wear nightclothes.

The problem remained; whilst he was getting used to her wand, he would have to wear her nightclothes. He sighed and reached for them.

"At least it's sensible," he muttered to Crookshanks. The cat seemed unconcerned, but Snape was nonethless relieved. Some of the more extravagant concoctions he had seen on sale on the occasions he forced himself into Madame Malkin's for new robes would have been almost more than he could deal with this evening, the connotations too fraught and complex.

Nonetheless, the nightdress presented its own difficulties. He would have to undress in order to put it on. Snape swore, low and fluently, as he struggled with the idea of removing Hermione's clothes. This seemed somehow the worst invasion of her - and his - privacy so far. Crookshanks cracked open one eye at the cursing, apparently curious to see what the fuss was about, then went back to sleep when no threat was obvious. Snape almost blessed the cat, its continued sleep giving him an idea; he doused the lights and changed in the dark. If he couldn't see what he was undressing, he could pretend nothing had changed.

Morning came faster than he expected; eighteen-year-old girls' bodies clearly demanded more sleep than he was used to getting. Snape dressed rapidly, avoiding the mirror and trying not to think about what he was doing. Familiarity would eventually deal with the problem, he hoped - and familiarity would happen, he was sure. Somewhere in the depths of sleep he had come up with a few possible solutions to their problem, which he would need to discuss with Miss Granger, but he suspected that only one would turn out to work - the one which would take the longest, naturally.

Fate was definitely playing with him.

Breakfast was loud; too many students all busy discussing the day ahead, yesterday, and countless other topics of conversation around him. Snape was startled to see Hermione at the staff tables; had she never noticed that he avoided breakfast as far as possible? He would have avoided this morning's breakfast - if he had been given a choice in the matter. Between Potter, Weasley, and the demands of his new metabolism, he had been dragged down to the Hall with the other students. Harry and Ron. Snape shook his head, and repeated the names to himself. Call them Harry and Ron, he thought fiercely. No other option available, slips would be expensive.

He looked at the bacon piled high on platters and looked again at the plate of toast, eggs, mushroom and tomatoes in front of him, then sighed. A sideways glance up to the staff table confirmed that Hermione would notice if he took so much as a rasher; Pott- Harry and Ron would certainly notice.

He reached for another platter instead and added another egg; ignoring the chatter around him, he concentrated on the food on his plate. Breakfast was usually no more than coffee for him, but the insistent hunger he'd woken up with suggested that Miss Granger's body required rather more than coffee first thing in the morning. He stole another glance up at the staff table; that much, at least, she had worked out. Hermione was toying with a mug, gazing around the Hall as she sipped, ignoring the food around her. She noticed him watching her and glared at him. In character, but was there some particular reason for her glare? Snape didn't think he'd done anything out of character for her this morning; certainly none of her friends were asking whether there was anything wrong. All the conversation he'd had this morning had consisted of greetings and little more - apparently Hermione was no more of a morning conversationalist than he was.

Coffee. He needed coffee. It was the one thing missing from the tables - long ago, one of the school matrons had decreed that it was inappropriate for growing children and, ever since, all that was offered to the students was tea. Weak tea at that, and the only other option was water or milk. None of the options appealed, but Snape had poured a glass of water anyway and sipped at it now, having finished the last of his breakfast.

"Miss Granger, a word if you please." A smoothly malevolent voice behind him almost startled him, and he looked round to face himself. Hermione had left the staff table and had come up silently behind him. She was now standing, looking down at him with an expectant expression on her face. As Snape stood, she turned and strode out of the Hall, clearly expecting him to follow.

"I'll let McGonagall know, if you're late to class, Hermione," hissed Harry.

Snape nodded and supposed a reply was expected. "Thanks, uh, Harry." Transfiguration class followed breakfast - that much he had deciphered from Hermione's cryptic chart of classes and studying. It wasn't an experience he was looking forward to.

Outside the doors of the Hall, the noise of breakfast was suddenly abated. Hermione stood waiting for him by one of the corridors leading down to the dungeons. As he approached, she looked down at him.

"Have you ever heard of a hairbrush?" she asked him angrily. "You may not pay any attention to this appearance," she gestured at herself, "but you are going to have to pay attention to mine unless you really want other people to pay more attention than they should. Either learn to use a hairbrush or learn the charms that will take care of it," she bit out.

Snape grimaced; he'd forgotten that being Miss Granger would require the usual female rituals in the morning. Rather than apologise, though, he followed up with his own questions.

"What were you doing at breakfast, Miss Granger? Surely in the last seven years you cannot have been so entranced by the scintillating conversation of other student that you have failed to notice that I am never in the Hall at this hour of the morning unless I have absolutely no other choice - I have quite enough contact with students without requiring their company first thing in the morning."

"I wanted to see how you were doing - and it's just as well I did," retorted Hermione pointedly. "Harry and Ron won't have noticed that you hadn't bothered to brush your hair, but Lavender and Parvati certainly will. I wouldn't be surprised if Professor McGonagall noticed in class as well - hardly the way to make sure no-one notices the switch," she added brusquely. "You've just got time to get back to my - your bedroom and deal with it before you get to class. I'll see you later; we are meeting after lunch to go over this afternoon's lesson, aren't we?"

That last question stripped away some of Hermione's bravado, and Snape suddenly realised she wasn't facing the situation with quite as much equanimity as he thought. The realisation that he wasn't the only one feeling overwhelmed was surprisingly cheering. He nodded and, as she wheeled away towards the dungeons, took the hint and headed back to Gryffindor Tower before classes to use the few minutes break to practice again with Hermione's wand - this time trying to tame her hair. He had more or less succeeded - and her hair was certainly looking tidier - by the time he reached McGonagall's class.

He had been carefully not thinking about this class; transfiguration had not been his best subject at school, and he had not been looking forward to this. Still, he mused, he had passed his transfiguration NEWTS with a reasonable grade - and how much could he have forgotten, after all?

The answer, he found to his chagrin, was rather a lot. The spellbook in front of him was not being particularly co-operative in returning to its original form - one of Hagrid's smaller beasts. He could manage the transformation from animate to inanimate without a problem; inanimate to animate was more difficult.

He wasn't worse than the rest of the class, true, but - from the puzzled looks on McGonagall's face - he was not up to Hermione's usual standard. He scowled, realising that he was going to have homework of his own, practising transfiguration, whilst Hermione got on with hers. When he looked up, McGonagall was standing in front of him.

"Miss Granger, is everything all right?" she asked, concerned.

"I'm fine, Professor," he answered then, resisting his inclination never to give explanations, elaborated. "Just tired; there was an accident in Potions yesterday and I didn't sleep well afterwards. I'll be fine, I'm just having difficulty concentrating."

McGonagall appeared to take his explanation at face value and simply said, "Very well, Miss Granger" before she turned to deal with Longbottom, who appeared to be no more competent at transfiguration than he was at potions.

The practical exercise was soon over, to Snape's relief, and the class settled to McGonagall's lecture on the importance of procedure on the shifts required to create animate objects from the inanimate. Snape scribbled notes with the rest of the class, conscious that Miss Granger would need his notes to learn from in the evenings if she was to do homework and keep up with her class during the year.

A whispered query from his right ensured that even if Snape had wanted to do Hermione's homework - perish the thought - there was a very simple reason why he would not have been able to.

"Hermione, what on earth are you writing?" came the hoarse whisper from Ron. "I can't read it!"

"Why are you reading my notes?" asked Snape in a similar whisper.

"Because I've got lost as usual," was the exasperated reply. "I can't keep up with her!"

"Sorry," muttered Snape, not sorry at all, "it's a new shorthand I learnt over the summer. Makes it easier to keep up. Get the notes from Harry after class or something." Ron glared at him, and returned to his own notes.

"Thanks," he said with ill-grace.

Snape was rather pleased with the quick reply. Handwriting was obviously related to the mind of the individual, not the body writing. The notes he scribbled during class were a reasonable fascimile of his own handwriting - which was not vastly dissimilar to Muggle shorthand, he had found once - and nothing like the relatively clear, open, handwriting of Miss Granger.

The class was over, eventually, and Snape returned with the rest of the Gryffindors to the Tower to leave his books before lunch - a meal almost as loud as breakfast, and almost as indigestible under Hermione's glare from the staff table. Returning to Gryffindor after lunch, to collect more books before heading down to the dungeon to meet Hermione, he hadn't quite reached the Tower when he found himself called back.

"Miss Granger, I believe we had an appointment?"