A/N: This is my first fic after an 8-year-long hiatus. Reviews are welcome/encouraged, but please be gentle. Of course, the HP universe and all characters therein belong to Rowling.
As Hermione Granger stumbled back up the tunnel away from the Shrieking Shack where her former Potions master lay dying, or dead, she wasn't sure which, her mind raced, replaying everything she'd ever known about Severus Snape. It wasn't much; pieces she'd picked up here and there, old newspaper clippings, the little Harry had told her about their Occlumency lessons. And, of course, her observations of him at Hogwarts and Grimmauld Place. She ran through it all, cataloging, rearranging, discarding. There was still something missing; the pieces didn't fit. His request to Harry, the way he gazed into his face without a hint of loathing - in one horrible, exhilarating moment it all snapped into place.
"Fucking hell," she whispered, freezing in her tracks. "He's been ours all along." It was the only possible explanation for what she'd just witnessed, for his behavior, for the holes in the narrative she'd put together concerning life at Hogwarts after the Trio had left. Though she didn't understand the details of the whys or hows of his duplicity, his marvelous, heroic duplicity, for the first time in her life, she chose action over further thought. A virtuous, miserable life, a second chance for the double-crosser hung in the balance, and she turned and began to speed back towards the Shack.
"Hermione -"
"I'll be right behind you. Harry, you'll need to look at those memories. They'll show you I'm right. Ron, I promise, I swear, I'll be just a moment."
"You're not - he's a traitor, Hermione, he killed Dumble-"
"GO." She kept her voice low, but her tone was icy, and, certain she was outside the reach of the Hogwarts wards, she turned on her heel and Disapparated.
She reappeared instantly at Snape's side. He was still alive, but only just. She took a deep breath and shoved her hand into her bag, feeling around for the distinctive box she'd stowed there weeks before.
Uncorking her bottle of dittany with her teeth, she dumped the last of it onto his neck, glad he was unconscious as his flesh roiled and hissed. Next came bloodmoss and spider's silk which she pressed into the still-oozing puncture wounds, and she bound it all together with a bandage she'd pinched from a paramedic outside of Cotswold. She covered him with the paramedic's tin blanket and a woolen one she'd lifted from a laundry line in Ireland and felt his pulse. It was weak and thready; the pool of blood beneath him was too large.
She knew that the snake must have been milked of its venom recently, or Snape would never have lived long enough to retrieve his memories for Harry. That meant the biggest issue was blood loss. She tipped the last of her Replenishing Potion into his mouth and massaged his throat to help him swallow it. She knew it wasn't enough to keep him alive, but every little bit helped. Hands trembling slightly, she unraveled the mess of plastic tubing she'd pinched for just this eventuality and uttered a quick prayer to whichever god might be listening to let this work.
She shoved up his sleeve and the needle into the crook of his elbow, sending the bag of saline solution to hover above him with one flick of her wand. Tearing a strip from the hem of her shirt, she fashioned a tourniquet and bound it around her upper arm. She gritted her teeth and shoved a second needle into her vein and watched, mesmerized, as a line of crimson began to creep toward a second bag. Touching the tip of her wand to the pool of blood beneath his head, she murmured the spell she'd invented that would reveal his blood type, and she watched with detached pleasure as it worked, gold rivulets in the blood spelling out "AB+" slowly.
"Oh, thank God," she whispered, and for the first time allowed herself a glimmer of hope. She hadn't been able to practice the charms she'd theorized would allow donation of one blood type to another incompatible one, and she hadn't fancied field-testing them quite like this. Hermione was not one to believe in omens, but she couldn't deny that he was AB+, the universal recipient, boded well.
She rolled up his other sleeve, unconsciously hissing as she revealed the Dark Mark. Once she found the vein and slid the needle in, she rearranged the series of locks and tubes with a wave of her wand. Carefully she stood, taking care to disturb the tubing as little as possible, and she watched as her blood flowed down the tube, through the bag, and into his arm.
"Aguamenti," she whispered, and drank greedily from the tip of her wand. If she stayed hydrated and took Pepper-Up potion, she figured she could give him two, maybe two-and-half -and still be able to fight, at least for a while. Judging from the sounds outside, a little while was all that would be needed, anyway.
Time dragged on, and Hermione found she was becoming lightheaded. She rummaged in her bag and came up with Pepper-Up and a package of stale biscuits, which she savored before downing the potion in one. Immediately her head cleared and she felt stronger. Finally, the needle in her arm glowed blue and she tugged it out, binding her arm tightly. She repeated the maneuver with Snape, but left the saline port in. His pulse was stronger, and she tucked the blanket around him tighter with a grim sort of pride.
"I'll come back for you," she whispered into his ear, "I hope."
Biting back tears, she turned on the spot and Disapparated.
***
The battle was over, Voldemort, vanquished, and Hermione swayed on the spot. The only thing in the world she wanted was to sleep, but she had one thing left to do. Leaving Ron with his family, her shirt still wet from his tears and Molly's, she turned wearily on her heel, the wards of Hogwarts long since destroyed, and Disapparated to the Shack.
Snape's eyes fluttered open as she knelt over him.
"Granger," he croaked, his voice shattered, "What -"
"We won," she whispered, squeezing his hand, "It's over."
He closed his eyes, looking utterly peaceful, and somehow she pulled him up, dragged him into half a fireman's carry, and staggered into nothingness.
***
When she woke, she found herself nestled between crisp white sheets, sunshine streaming in through an open window. Her entire body ached, but she'd been worse off, so she decided to try to chance sitting up. Snape lay in the bed next to hers, clean bandages on his neck, looking pale, but clearly out of any immediate danger. She let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding, and looked around. The room was unfamiliar, but if the amount of tartan covering every available surface was anything to go by, they were in Professor McGonagall's quarters. Hermione swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, blinking back a wave of dizziness. Almost immediately, the door opened and Madame Pomfrey bustled in, glaring at her.
"Bed," she ordered. "Now."
Hermione obeyed, but remained sitting upright.
"How is he?" she asked stubbornly, glancing over at Snape again.
"He'll live," said Madame Pomfrey, her mouth a tight line, and the door opened again before she could say any more.
"Hermione," yelped Ron, Harry, and Ginny in unison, practically tripping over each other in their haste to get to her.
"What the bloody hell did you think you were doing?" Ron continued thunderously, his eyes dark as he advanced.
"He never doublecrossed us, Ron, I told you -"
"You didn't even know that when you - Harry didn't see the memories until - tell her, Harry!"
Harry shook his head slowly, and looked Hermione in the eye. "Thank you," he whispered, and ruffled her hair.
Hermione smiled weakly up at him as Ron sputtered. Ginny, strangely, remained silent at Harry's side, watching Ron.
"I don't understand it, Hermione. Why did you risk your life for that greasy git-"
At this, Ginny made a move for her wand, but Hermione shook her head and said, sharply, "Ronald."
He froze, frowning down at her, and she chose her words carefully, hoping she wasn't too off-base.
"Ron, there wasn't anything I could do for Fred. You know that. If there were, I would have helped him, just like I helped Professor Snape. I promise. And you're right, I shouldn't have galloped straight back into battle, but it's not like I had much of a choice there. I hardly risked my life for him. It was just a couple pints of blood."
Madame Pomfrey made a dissatisfied sound from the corner, and Ron and Ginny both grimaced.
"Blood?" Ron hissed, obviously horrified.
"Yes, of course - oh, honestly, you two, your father is mad about Muggles. How is it you don't know anything about their - our technology?"
She explained briefly about blood donation, banking, and transfusion. Ginny looked impressed, but Ron wrinkled his nose.
"Can't they just take a potion?" he asked in disgust.
"Honestly, Ron," Hermione began, voice shrill, and was almost relieved when Madame Pomfrey stepped in.
"Enough. She's tired and you're agitating her. Out. Out!"
Ron stomped away, followed closely by Ginny, who was reaching for her wand again, but Hermione grabbed Harry's hand. She gave Madame Pomfrey a pleading glance and mouthed "one minute." The matron threw up her hands and turned away.
"Why?" she asked him quickly and quietly. "Why'd he do it?"
"Love," Harry said simply.
"Your mum?"
"Yes. How'd you put it together?"
"Eyes," Hermione whispered.
Harry nodded.
"And Dumbledore?" she asked, heart pounding. That Snape had killed Dumbledore was incontrovertible, and had almost been her sticking point.
"They'd planned it. He didn't want to, but Dumbledore - he made him. It was awful, Hermione. I can't – It was just awful."
She nodded, and glanced over at the matron, who was fuming.
"You'd better go," she told him, squeezing his hand "I know you've just won the war, for us and all, but it's Madame Pomfrey. She'll have you out on your ear."
He smiled crookedly at her, and she pulled him down and kissed his forehead.
"Well done, Harry," she said, and pushed him gently toward the door.
"Likewise," he muttered gruffly, and was gone.
As soon as the door latched behind Harry, Madame Pomfrey strode over with a bottle of unpleasant-looking potion. Hermione eyed it warily.
"Replenishing Potion," the matron explained, pouring it into a small glass and shoving it at her. Hermione downed it in one.
"Why are you so angry?" she asked quietly, looking up into Madame Pomfrey's haggard face. She sighed and perched at the foot of the bed.
"Hermione...What you did was foolish. Incredibly brave and selfless, but foolish. I don't even know where to begin. You could have sent him into hemolysis."
Hermione bristled. "He's AB+; I checked before I started the transfusion."
"Checked how?"
Hermione explained about her spell, and Poppy had the grace to look impressed.
"Very well, but you can't have cross-matched it, too."
Hermione shrugged. "There wasn't time. I had to take a calculated risk."
"Apparently. Did you even consider the magical implications for mixing blood? There's a reason we don't transfuse in the Wizarding world, Hermione."
Hermione swallowed. She'd wondered, of course, during the course of her research, but had brushed it aside, assuming that the focus on blood was a rhetorical device used by bigots. She cursed inwardly. There were twelve highly important uses for dragon's blood; she should have extrapolated to conclude that wizarding blood would be equally powerful, or, at the very least, not without risk when used in large quantities.
"What are the implications?" she asked, her voice small, and to her surprise, the older woman shrugged.
"I can't be sure at this point. His aptitudes may change; he may need a new wand. It's possible he'll have a connection to your magic, your spells, though what the nature of that might be, I can't say. Nothing in the literature is clear or helpful; most blood magic is done on a much, much smaller scale. You seem to have been the first to attempt a wizarding transfusion-" A gong sounded somewhere in the distance, and Madame Pomfrey got to her feet and hurried out without another word.
Hermione bit her lip and resisted the urge to run off to the library. Madame Pomfrey would probably tie her to her bed if she found out, and besides, Hermione dreaded to see what state the library was in. She settled for distraction, digging around in her bag, eventually giving up and wordlessly Summoning A Brief Histoire of Magickal Law. She wanted to be prepared in case she had to testify at Snape's trial.
An hour later, Madame Pomfrey had still not returned, and Hermione was deep in a section on the legalities of inquisition under Veritaserum. She was stiff and sore, with a headache to boot, and she held her wand to her temple, murmuring the charm that would ease the pain for an hour or so.
A low groan from the next bed made her jump. She quickly transfigured her flimsy excuse for a hospital gown into fluffy dressing gown and leaped out of bed. He groaned again and murmured something, and she leaned closer.
"What was that, Professor?" she asked softly, carefully pushing his hair from his face so she could read his lips, and this time could hear his response.
"That tickled."
Instantly, Hermione removed her hand, wondering just how ticklish you'd have to be for hair-pushing to trigger it. She sat down next to him on the bed and smiled as he opened his eyes a sliver.
"How are you?" she asked. "Can I get you anything?"
"Water-" he croaked, and added, almost as an afterthought, "-please."
Hermione ran through every conversation they'd ever had as well as every conversation she'd ever overheard him having; he'd never once said 'please.' Bugger. Perhaps the blood loss had affected his personality; perhaps he was brain-damaged. She searched for a clean cup, and settled for rinsing out the one that had previously contained her Replenishing Potion. She murmured "Aguamenti," and Snape twitched.
"Stop that," he whispered. "I told you, it tickles."
Comprehension dawned. "You're feeling my magic?"
"Apparently. What did you -?"
She interrupted him. "What do you mean, it tickles?"
He paused, apparently weighing his response. "I'm not sure," he said finally. "Do something else. Something small," he added, as he tried to sit up. Hermione took up her wand and used it to rearranged his pillows, noting the wry tug at the corner of his mouth.
"The closest approximation, I think, is a sneeze that won't come," he said at last, settling back. "Thank you."
Please and thank you over the course of one short conversation. He certainly had sustained some sort of head injury. Hypoxia? Perhaps some sort of transient ischemic attack?
"I should let Madame Pomfrey know that you're up," Hermione said at last. "Do you mind if I cast a Patronus?" It was odd, asking his permission to perform magic.
"Go ahead," he whispered, closing his eyes.
Hermione gripped her wand firmly and followed suit. The war is over, she thought firmly. Voldemort is dead. We can move on with our lives. It should have been a happy thought, the happiest, really, but suddenly images of the broken Weasley family and Ron's angry face swam into her mind's eye, and when she tried to cast the spell, only a faint silver mist emanated from the tip of her wand.
"Only spell I've ever had trouble with," she muttered, embarrassed, and tried again. Mum and Dad, she thought fiercely. I'll see them again soon.
But even as she drew breath to utter the words, she thought of the twin blank, unfocused looks on their faces as she cast the false memory charm on them, and she knew if she tried her Patronus again, it would fail.
Eyes still closed, she heard Snape shift slightly in bed. He's alive. He gets a second chance. I saved him. My research.
"Expecto patronum."
With more effort than it had ever taken, she forced the silver otter from the tip of her wand, and it staggered off, looking decidedly rough around the edges. Snape gasped.
"I felt that," he said, looking at her wide-eyed. "Why - what did you do to your parents?"
Hermione frowned. How had he known? He was weak, wandless, not looking at her; there was no way he'd performed Legilimency. It had to be their newfound connection, her blood in his veins. Perhaps because the Patronus was, necessarily, a spell fraught with emotion, he, through her magic, would sense some of her feelings. She would have to be careful not to fail at casting another one. He deserved peace, happiness, rest.
"They're in Australia," she told him softly. "I removed all their memories of me. I had to keep them safe. I couldn't – I wouldn't have been as effective, worrying about them all the time. They're Monica and Wendell Wilkins now, two childless dentists living in Brisbane. The charm should be reversible, but if it's not – well, then it's not. They won't know the difference."
"I see," he said, his voice very low. His hand twitched on the quilt, but he stilled it. They sat in silence for a while, avoiding eye contact, and Hermione was glad when Madame Pomfrey bustled back in.
"Hermione, I just got your Patronus, but Kingsley Shacklebolt is demanding to have a word with you and Professor Snape. Alone. I told him no, but he insisted. He has five minutes. How are you feeling, Severus?" She waved her wand at him, muttering a string of what had to be diagnostic spells.
He shrugged. "Alive."
She let out an inelegant snort. "You have Hermione to blame for that."
"So I gathered."
Poppy fixed them with an inquisitive glare and seemed ready to pepper them with questions when Kinglsey swept in, his wand out. Before Hermione knew what she was doing, she had moved to stand between Kinglsey and Snape, her wand trained on the much taller man.
"Excuse us, Poppy," he said smoothly but firmly, and she obeyed, pausing only slightly before slinking out, closing the door firmly behind her.
"Hermione, lower your wand."
"No."
"Hermione-"
"He's on our side. I'll swear it before the Minister for Magic if I have to, you can pump us full of Veritaserum, Harry will give you the Professor's memories, and you can question Dumbledore's portrait. There's precedent for that, I just looked it up. I swear to God, Kingsley, if you so much as look at him the wrong way-" She broke off, realizing he had dropped his wand and was standing, hands raised, smiling slightly. After a moment she lowered her wand and climbed back into bed without a word.
Kingsley looked between the two of them for what seemed like a long time, clearly somewhat unnerved by Hermione's ferocious defense of her former professor. Approaching slowly, he sat at the edge of her bed, the mattress creaking under his considerable bulk.
"Severus," he said, bowing his head. "From what I've heard from Potter, it seems - I, we, the Order, the Ministry, we owe you an apology."
Hermione's jaw dropped. This wasn't at all what she had been expecting.
"There will have to be a trial, of course," he continued, glancing sidelong at Hermione, "But that'll be mostly for restoring your public image. There's no way you won't be cleared of all charges and awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class."
Snape inclined his head a fraction of an inch; if the news pleased him in any way, his face did not betray it.
"The press is already going wild, though I've no idea who they got the story from. You might want to arrange a hideout for the next several months. Harry has offered Grimmauld Place in the interim, or you could go abroad. Complicating things, of course, is the nature of your entanglement with Hermione."
He paused, and Snape raised an eyebrow.
"You haven't explained yet?" Kingsley asked, and Hermione shook her head.
"He's only just come 'round."
"Severus, Hermione saved your life by, among other measures, transfusing a considerable quantity of her blood into you. There's bound to be magical fallout, some of which I'm sure you've already noticed."
They nodded, and Kingsley turned slightly so he was talking more to Hermione than to Snape now.
"I believe Madame Pomfrey explained that this is uncharted territory."
Hermione nodded again, and met his eyes for the first time since she'd yelled at him. He was looking at her kindly.
"It would be wise, then, if you stay close together until the precise nature and limits of your connection are determined. I imagine the two of you will be able to puzzle it through and publish some rather impressive research," he added, smiling.
Hermione glanced over at Snape, whose expression was still inscrutable. She started to babble.
"I have to go to Australia to retrieve my parents, God knows if I'll be able to find them, much less reverse – Anyway, I don't have a home or a job, I haven't finished school, didn't take my N.E... I don't know what I'm going to do..." She looked back at Kingsley pleadingly.
"I imagine the two of you are rather in the same boat. You can figure it out together," he told her reassuringly. Hermione repressed a giggle, briefly imagining just how well it would go if she and Snape were to have a nice chat over tea about their hopes and dreams for the future.
"And as for a job," Kingsley continued, "I'd be happy to recommend you for just about any post you'd like at the Ministry. You're the most competent young woman I've met in an age, and we have a number of vacancies."
Hermione went pink at the compliment. "I'm afraid I'm not interested in Auror training," she demurred. "I've had enough haring after evil to last me a lifetime."
Kingsley smiled broadly. "Which is why it's good that I'm Minister for Magic, at least in the interim. I said any post, and I meant any post."
"Minister for Mag- Oh, shit. Oh, Christ. Bollocks." Hermione's hands flew to her mouth. She had threatened the Minister for Magic at wandpoint, and now she was swearing at him.
A dry creaking sound distracted her from her mortification. Snape was chuckling.
Chuckling.
Hermione heard Kingsley's impossibly low laugh and finally allowed herself to giggle. If Severus Snape could chuckle after the eighteen years he'd just had, she could jolly well join him.
***
Severus woke early the next morning feeling better than he had in years. It was amazing what a hearty meal, a good night's sleep, and the downfall of the most evil wizard of the last two centuries could do for the humours. He stretched and slid out of bed. He didn't feel like he'd been on the brink of death less than forty-eight hours earlier, save for the bandage on his neck. Poppy had explained that the residual venom on Nagini's fangs meant the puncture would heal more slowly than normal, but he was used to working wounded. Even a Death Eater as trusted and valued as he had been was punished, brutally, now and again.
He took up his wand from the bedside table, pleased to find it intact and returned to him. Shacklebolt must have meant what he'd said, then. He flicked it experimentally; gold and purple sparks burst from the tip. That was odd. The ones he usually produced were white. Frowning, he transfigured his hospital gown into jeans and a jumper. The spell worked, though the jeans were dark blue instead of the black he had intended, and the jumper was a soft cashmere v-neck rather than his normal woolen turtleneck. He rubbed a thoughtful finger along the cuff, then closed his eyes.
It had never been so easy to cast a Patronus, probably because the Dark Mark had all but disappeared since the Downfall, taking with it the pressing threat of discovery and pain as well as the connection to its master. The promise of a new life, peace, a future was enough for the spell to work instantaneously, almost before he'd finished saying the words. And just as instantaneously, he knew something was very, very wrong. He opened his eyes. Instead of the doe, his doe, his one remaining link to Lily save her spawn, there was great crow, bigger than any he'd seen in life, perched on the footboard of Granger's bed, surveying him with its head cocked.
He let out a strangled sort of moan and banished it with a flick of his wand. He sank back onto the bed, his head in his hands. He supposed it was fitting. Lily was gone, and the task he'd appointed himself in her memory was over. He'd seen her, briefly, as he hovered between life and death, and she'd smiled warmly at him before Granger and her unerring meddlesomeness yanked him firmly back to this side of the veil. And now he was free, and his Patronus was finally his own. At least it's not a bat, he thought wryly, digging the heels of his palms into his burning eyes. Although a bat would have made more sense, as a mammal. Granger's was an otter, and her magic had obviously affected, or infected, his. Why had it not touched his Patronus? He looked over and found himself face to face with her.
"How long have you been awake?" he asked somewhat more roughly than he'd intended.
"Long enough," she replied, uncowed. "It changed, didn't it?"
He nodded.
"I'm sorry," she said softly, and he felt a stab of sadness that didn't belong to him.
"Don't," he almost pleaded, his own grief still too raw and present. Her eyes widened a bit, and the sadness grew for a moment, then subsided.
"Right," she said briskly after a long pause in which they'd done nothing but stare at each other, "I'm going to pop off for a shower. Poppy should be here in an hour to do some diagnostics. After that, we can try to find a quiet spot to experiment in."
"What?" he asked rather dully, still half-lost in thoughts about Lily.
"Our - thing." She flapped one hand vaguely, and hopped out of bed. "Connection, or whatever you want to call it. We're going to have to figure it out sooner or later, and I'd prefer sooner, if you don't mind. I asked Poppy last night if she'd take some blood samples from each of us. Then I imagine we'll want to do some simple magic, though I see you've started that already, and I was hoping we could duel each other and see what happens. I'm not sure we'll be able to harm one another. Oh, and I've worked out a charm that will get us started on the blood. It will allow us to see how our magic is interacting, at least theoretically, but after that the ball's in your court. Also, I told Minerva last night that we'd help with the rebuilding. Although I suppose I should have asked before volunteering you. Sorry."
Severus stared down his nose at her. The girl was practically vibrating with excitement. With a pang, he realized that she must have missed this, missed research and learning and new magic. It must have all but driven her mad to be on an unending camping trip with a limited library and two narrow-minded, uncurious teenage boys for company. He knew the feeling. It had all but driven him mad to be stuck in the Headmaster's office, pushing paper and keeping Death Eaters from torturing the students too cruelly. He had missed his laboratory and his journals. And she had saved his life... He squared his shoulders, trying not to enjoy too much the whisper of cashmere against his skin.
"All right."
"Sorry?"
"I assume you took notes, Miss Granger? Leave them with me while you bathe."
She beamed at him and began rummaging in her purse, and he felt a little ping of phantom joy. It was infectious, and he felt the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement. She thrust a Muggle spiral-bound notebook into his hands and slipped from the room.
Forty-five minutes later, he had to admit that the girl was thorough. He wasn't sure when she'd had the time to work this all through, to be honest, unless she hadn't slept the night before. He also wasn't sure how long it took for one relatively small witch to clean herself, or how much hot water Hogwarts would be capable of producing at the moment, what with its innate magic occupied with keeping itself from falling apart at the seams. He fervently hoped there'd be enough left over for him.
She finally returned, her mad hair tamed somewhat by its wetness. She'd exchanged her dressing gown for blue jeans and a charcoal grey v-neck t-shirt, and he rolled his eyes. Wonderful. Not only was he some sort of wireless receiver for her emotions, but his magic had seemingly been affected by her sartorial sense. Just bloody perfect. At least she favored dark colours.
"Right," she said, smiling. "What do you think?" It took him a moment to realize she was referring to the notes, not her wardrobe, and he thrust the notebook back at her.
"It is not without merit," he admitted grudgingly. "I believe your charm will, in fact, work, and once we can visualise the nature of the entanglement, we can begin to work out how to undo it."
She smiled broadly and was drawing breath to speak when Poppy bustled in, laden down with notes and unpleasant-looking instruments.
The next several whiles were a flurry of diagnostic spells, blood draws, and chattering witches. The hypothesizing was bearable, even interesting, but when they got sidetracked from Healing and began to natter on about the instant trend of post-war engagements, Severus found he had had quite enough.
"Will you be QUIET," he bellowed, and blissful silence fell. Poppy looked startled, while Granger looked, and, he realized, felt terrified. "I apologise for yelling," he continued in a mutter, somewhat abashed, "but I am underfed and, more to the point, undercaffeinated. Would one of you please have the decency to call for breakfast and a very large, very strong pot of coffee?"
"Make that two, please, Madame Pomfrey," added Granger. "If we're going to work all day, I'll need coffee and toast."
"If you're going to duel me, Miss Granger, I'd advise something heartier than toast."
"If you're going to duel me, Professor Snape, I'd advise a second pot of coffee."
He gaped at her. The timid, mousy, nervous girl he had known would never have spoken to him in that insolent tone, much less have had enough confidence in her abilities to challenge him. His astonishment must have been written on his face, because she shrugged and raised one eyebrow.
"War does funny things to a person, Professor."
"So it would seem," he said dryly, and bowed to Poppy. "If you'll excuse me, I would like to bathe before breakfast."
"Make sure to keep your bandage dry," the matron and Granger chorused, and it was all he could do to keep from rolling his eyes. Women.