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Smart Girls are Easy (and Other Humiliations)
Zigadenus
Chapter the Third
Hermione glanced at her watch, and quickened her pace. It was a good thing that the short halls connecting the stairs down to the dungeons were nearly absent of décor – she definitely didn't have time to run an obstacle course around statuary or hanging tapestries. Save for sconces and the occasional suit of armor in a recessed nook, the principal passage down to the dungeons was unrelieved stone, the supporting arches looming close overhead.
She'd spent her first three years at Hogwarts annoyed by these close walls and narrow steps. The crowding and shoving as students either marched like convicts down to Snape's classroom, or made their swift breaks for freedom, was positively intolerable. A Muggle reference book on castle architecture had explained the matter: back when the castle had been used as a military fortification, it was decidedly advantageous to prevent escaping prisoners from moving too quickly en masse.
She did wonder why the castle had never remodelled this aspect of itself. In most other respects, it seemed to have forgotten that it was in fact a castle, and had taken on the character of a boarding school with zeal and vigour. It was depressing, really, that it would choose to preserve the ugliest parts of its history. Perhaps the magic in the old stones was guilty of things it had witnessed through the centuries, and used the dungeons as a reminder.
Or, perhaps she was merely anthropomorphising, subconsciously drawing her conclusions from idle thoughts of the dungeons' resident master. She had a niggling suspicion it was the latter.
She frequently caught herself thinking about the dour Potions master. She wasn't sure what she'd expected of him after Riddle's demise, but whatever it was, it wasn't a continuation of the status quo. She didn't think she'd been silly enough to imagine him undergoing some remarkable transformation with the weight of Voldemort lifted from his shoulders, especially given the Wizengamot's subsequent dismissal of his role, and a six-month incarceration in Azkaban. But still, it didn't seem quite real that he should be so unchanged. He was the same as ever: aloof, caustic, impatient, and strict. Charity suggested that this was a persona he donned like armor, and that she'd never met the real Severus Snape. She hoped it was true, although what need would he still have of armor?
Had vanquishing Voldemort and his Death Eaters really had no substantive impact on their world at all?
Her musings had carried her fully into the corridor outside Snape's office, and she realized with a start of panic that she had absolutely no idea how to approach the man. Did he know why she'd missed class? Should she apologize, explain? Perhaps even a pre-emptive apology was in order. It was, after all -– she checked her watch –- ten minutes past his office hours.
Then again, perhaps it was better to put forward a strong front. She rather thought that abstaining from raising her hand in class ought to be worth a little after-hours aggravation. She had, after all, been very good about not pestering him with her "infernal arm waving". He couldn't ask for better than that, could he?
Hermione took a deep breath, clenched and unclenched her hands, made a quick scan up and down the dark, narrow hallway, and then, positioning herself firmly in front of the door, raised her hand to knock.
She winced a bit at how loud her knuckles sounded upon the wood. Too boisterous, by far. Perhaps it was even a demanding knock. Oh, this wasn't starting well at all.
The door opened, just as she was contemplating making a run for it, and trying again later. The Potions Master looked down his long nose at her, and she instantly felt five inches shorter. She narrowly avoided reaching up a hand to check her hair and tidy her collar.
"Miss Granger."
Oh, he wasn't going to make this easy, was he? "Good evening, sir. I was wondering if I might have a word with you."
"You may." He didn't move aside, however. He only folded his arms, his pale, spidery fingers shrouded by the dark fabric of his robe.
"Er…"
"Well, you've had your word; now let's see your Charms acumen. Disappear, Miss Granger."
She blinked. She blinked again. And then his humour caught up with her, and, perhaps because she could detect no special malice, a nervous chuckle escaped. She watched a corner of his mouth turn up ever-so-slightly, and she fought to contain a laugh that was getting less nervous, and a bit more hysterical. Snape smiling! No one would ever believe her.
He rolled his eyes, and stepped back from the door. "Well, I knew my luck wouldn't last forever. You might as well come in and have a seat. I'll warn you now, though – if I have to answer questions you've kept pent up since September, I'll not be held responsible for your medical bills at St Mungo's."
Somewhere on those narrow stairs she'd slipped into an alternate reality, that was all there was to it. Because Professor Severus Snape did not make jokes. Ever. She sat down in the chair he'd gestured to. "I haven't been, actually. Keeping questions pent up, that is. I did learn something from Slughorn's class."
He raised an eyebrow, a condescending sneer twisting his lips.
"Between him and that textbook, the class was useless, is what I mean. And I knew you'd probably take points if I tried to ask Potions questions in Defence, so I got into the habit of writing my questions down in the margins, and looking up the answers later. So that's what I've been doing. So, you see, I'm not here to pester you with lesson questions at all." She gave him a weak smile, sickly aware of the fact that she'd been blathering.
His face had relaxed a bit, which she took as a good sign. His tone was bored, which was better than angry or frustrated. "You were planning on getting to the point sometime this century?"
Did she dare? Well, she was a Gryffindor, wasn't she? "Certainly, sir. Maybe even within the next decade."
He snorted, and she was hard pressed not to grin in delight. She'd made him laugh, she really had! Best cut to the chase, though. Any minute the real Professor Snape would be back, and she'd have no chance of emerging from this unscathed. "Actually, I wanted to ask about class today. I missed it, you see –"
"In fact, it had not escaped my attention, Miss Granger. I assure you, I do notice Longbottom's exploding cauldrons."
"Er, yes." That dry tone had successfully derailed the campaign she'd been about to mount.
"Continue, Miss Granger," he sighed. "I presume there is an actual reason behind your absence?"
"I – I had to appear before the Ministry, today. They've finally moved into hearings and sentencing for the students."
Snape's eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward across his desk. "I thought the general amnesty following Potter's hearing applied. You were all cleared of violating restrictions against underage magic. That should have covered the defensive spells used in the fight, as well as everything the three of you used on your… extended camping trip."
"Right, yes. Any second- or third-class offence was included in the Amnesty. It, uh, didn't cover first-class offences though. Unforgiveables, violence against Muggles."
Snape sank back, a look of incredulity dawning across his face, "Who amongst you was stupid enough – or capable enough, frankly – to use an Unforgiveable Curse?"
She twisted the edge of her robes between suddenly clammy fingers, and looked down into her lap. "No one." Don't think about Harry, don't look in his eyes. Truth time: "I was being sentenced for perpetrating violence against Muggles."
"In what conceivable context?"
"Memory charms." Her voice snagged, and she took a steadying breath. Snape's quirked eyebrow demanded clarification. "I obliviated my parents, before we left to hunt Horcruxes. They weren't going to let me stay, they'd been reading the Prophet, see, and knew what was happening. They'd already made plans for us to hide away in Australia. We had a fight about it. And, I… I removed about a week's worth of their memories. Destroyed my plane ticket, wrote a few letters making it seem like I'd gone on ahead, like I was already there, at the apartment they'd rented in Brisbane. So they went on without me, and I went with Harry and Ron instead."
"A week." His voice was hollow.
"I didn't know," she whispered.
A silence stretched out, as the pain beneath her ribcage swelled. She bit her lip; Snape was the last person who would appreciate her tears.
His voice, when he finally broke the silence, was strangely gentle: "I daresay you know now."
She bowed her head again, and sniffed back a traitorous tear.
"And your sentencing?" His tone was firm and business-like.
She could handle that. Back to practicalities. Practicalities she could deal with. "Guilty, of course. Some of them thought I should have a suspended sentence, conditional on behaviour, but they were the minority. Instead I've got a 10-year probationary period."
"The conditions of which are? No, never mind, it's no business of mine. I've presumed too much, Miss Granger, I apologise. You only came here to ask about today's lesson, I imagine."
Good Lord, someone who didn't want to pry into her privacy? "Yes, but it's fine, I don't mind your asking. In fact, well… No. Anyway, it's an extended restriction against using magic. While I'm still in school, I'm restricted anywhere but Hogwarts. After that, they'll bind my magic to a legal guardian; my employer, or someone standing in loco parentis, or, erm, a spouse."
"Hmm." He seemed disinclined to comment further, and instead plucked a battered journal from the corner of his desk, "We continued on with lunitidal effects today, I'll assume you did the reading. For practical application, you were to construct the neap-tide base for the Plinian contraceptive draught; the only observable difference between doing it mid-afternoon and moonrise will be the quantity of vapours. Of course, the efficacy is increased threefold if the timing is right, which brings us to homework: the set problem was to construct a table of twenty neap- and spring-dependent bases, and calculate potency diminishment at 1, 3, and 5 hours remove from optimal timing. Due at the start of next class."
She scribbled frantically. "Should I do the base, too?"
"If you want practise; I'm not grading it."
"Oh. Erm, is there any chance –"
"Granger, you don't need extra points. I can appreciate a desire for endless busy-ness, but I should think you've more important things to focus on than contraceptive potions." He paused, seemed to realise what he'd just said, winced, and revised, "Or anything else you could brew in your second year. Just show up, do the homework, write your NEWTs, and do something useful with your life."
There was a clear warning in his tone, but there was also a compliment buried in there, she was sure of it, and it was just too good an opening to ignore. "Well, that's just the thing, Professor. I've been reading a lot about potions research, since Slughorn, I mean, and it's actually really interesting. And I was wondering," she paused, and drew in a deep breath, before saying in a rush, "I was wondering, sir, if you could perhaps offer some advice on pursuing a career in Potions?"
"Is your head of house really that incompetent, to have failed to discuss career options?" His tone was dry again, and after a moment, he opened a desk drawer from which he extracted a large, cumbersome folder.
He was done with her; she was sure that she read dismissal in the set of his shoulders. Well, it had been worth a try, hadn't it? She reached down, and fumbled to get hold of the strap of her bag. When she looked up again, his eyes were once again studying her. She twitched away from his gaze, suddenly uncertain.
"What, no staunch defence of the werewolf?"
"Professor Lupin does well enough as Head. But I really don't think I'd be best served by asking his advice about a field that he's only got a brushing interest in." She realized, even as she answered, that Snape was toying with her, prodding to see which button or lever elicited a result. She was suddenly, acutely, aware of the fact that she hadn't leapt to a defence of Lupin until Snape had referred to him as "the werewolf". It wasn't that she really thought Lupin was a good Head – he was vastly inferior to McGonagall – but for Snape to question his humanity was intolerable.
She wondered what sort of internal analysis produced the small smirk at the corner of his narrow lips. He hadn't explicitly asked her to leave, had he? Perhaps she wasn't out of luck yet. "Anyway, I would really appreciate it if you could offer me some advice. If it's not convenient now, perhaps I could come back at some other time?" There, that gave him an out.
He sighed, with the air of one unable to put off an unpleasant task, and snapped the folder open, laying it across his desk. She saw her name at the top of a long list of scores. Was this her record? But he was addressing her, so she glanced away from the intriguing folder.
"Your grades, Miss Granger, are not entirely inferior, and while your brewing tends toward pedestrian and uninspired, there may be hope for you. What aspects of the field particularly interest you?"
She swallowed hard. Obviously she'd imagined a compliment earlier. But he still hadn't thrown her out. Onward, because coming up blank in the face of his query would rapidly dispel any interest on his part whatsoever. "I thoroughly enjoyed the practical exercises on deconstructing various potions to base elements. And I do like brewing, I know I could be better at it. But I haven't actually narrowed down any particular aspects I'd like to study – it seems that I don't yet know enough of the entire breadth of the field in order to make that judgement."
"I suppose you've looked into the Alchemical Guild?"
"Er, well I know that it's the official organization for anyone in pure research, but I actually haven't come across much reference to it, outside of the Acknowledgements columns…" She trailed off when she saw the professor roll his eyes.
"Heaven preserve us from the know-it-alls. Miss Granger, you will be much improved as a human being if you learn the value of brevity. A simple, "No, sir, I'm not" would have sufficed admirably."
Her cheeks flaming, she looked away.
"The Guild is an exclusive multinational academic organization. "Official" doesn't go quite far enough. They're probably the single most powerful organization within academia, and certainly they have a legal reach here. Like all worthless bureaucratic institutes, the Ministry finds day-to-day matters of mere administration challenging. As such, they've been content to leave the academics to their own devices, and the governance of their activities to the historical regulations of the guilds. A consequence of this autonomy from Ministerial regulation is that British members of the Alchemical Guild form their own governing body, unanswerable in the majority of their practises to anyone else."
"So, er, that means that… well, what, exactly?" She felt very stupid, as if her mind had abruptly fallen asleep, rather like her left leg had.
"It means, Miss Granger, that in the United Kingdom, only members of the Guild are permitted to engage in research and experimentation. It is illegal, here, to do so without the explicit Guild sanction granted by membership. To gain admission, you present a formal petition: a unified portfolio of experimental or theoretical work in the field."
"But if only members are allowed to do research, how would I do that?"
He sank back in his chair, a scowl of impatience growing across his features. "You either emigrate to a country with less red tape, or you work under the guidance and supervision of a member; an apprenticeship, either of a formal or informal nature."
She opened her mouth to begin her next query, but he cut her off with an imperious wave of his hand. "Unlike you, some of us have things to accomplish this evening. If you are set upon this goal, I can present you as an apprenticeship candidate along with Mr. Malfoy at the December meeting."
She couldn't help it, she positively beamed at him. "Thank you, sir, this means so much to me! Thank you so very much, I really-"
"Miss Granger. The door is over there. Utilize it, please."
She nodded, and hefted her bag to her shoulder. As she grasped the cool handle, he spoke again. "You oughtn't to be so effusive in your gratitude. I don't think you'll particularly enjoy yourself. And given the conditions of your probation, if you ask my opinion, you're likely better off breeding Potters or Weasleys."
Hermione thumped her bag down on the broad oak library table, and settled into the hard-backed wooden chair with an angry huff. Her eyes were stinging with unshed tears of frustration, but she'd refused herself the refuge of Myrtle's toilet. No, she'd done enough wallowing for one day; it was time to get something accomplished. To hell with Snape; she'd been stupid to think he might actually see something of value in her. No one else did, after all. Know-it-all, Mudblood, nag, frigid bitch, pedestrian and uninspired. Why did those last two hurt the worst? Relative freshness? Or accuracy?
She withdrew the Transfiguration text from her bag and let it fall on the table with a satisfying clunk. She was searching for a quill when a cool, nasal voice intruded upon her self-absorption.
"Really, Granger. Must you be so loud? People are trying to work here, you know."
She turned, eyes narrowed. Malfoy had leaned out of the shadows, where he was curled in a basket chair, scrolls littering the floor around him. "What are you doing here, Malfoy?" She twisted his name into a snarl.
He arched a pale eyebrow in response, and sat up straight in the chair. "It's a public space, Granger, but if you must know, I'm plotting my ascendance as the next evil overlord. That's what you wanted to hear, isn't it?"
She felt her cheeks flaming. "I never – I didn't mean – Forget it, sorry."
He was standing now, and turned his back towards her dismissively. The shadows swallowed him again briefly, as he collected his papers. Within a moment, he'd re-emerged into the dull glow of the massive pillar candle that lit the large table.
"You know what the problem is with you Gryffindors?"
"I get the feeling you're going to tell me."
"You can't let go of grudges, and you can't move beyond a single initial impression of anybody you ever clap eyes upon. You're fond of stereotypes, and you can't handle it when the world fails to conform to your happy little categories."
She sniffed, and fixed him with a glare. "What exactly are you implying?"
"I'm not implying anything, Granger. I'm flat-out telling. But I don't have time for didactics, and certainly not with you." He levitated a stack of books and turned to go.
"What, because I'm a Mudblood?"
He allowed the books to settle onto the table top, and turned to face her again, leaning on the books so that the cover of the topmost was obscured by his arm. "That is exactly what I mean. We were, what, twelve? And you'd rather believe that I haven't matured beyond a twelve-year-old's reasoning than confront the fact that perhaps, just perhaps, your preconceived notions of the world don't accurately reflect reality." He gazed at her impassively, his pale eyes hooded, and suddenly too old for the floppy sheaf of hair that fell into them.
She broke away from his gaze after a moment, and stared at the wall of books beyond him. After a few moments, she lowered her eyes, and mentally prodded at the new feeling that was seeping into her. Yes, yes it seemed to be shame. She bit her lip, and studied the texture of her quill, searching for the right words.
They weren't there.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have been so rude. You only asked me to be quiet, I shouldn't have snapped at you. And…" she trailed off, and twisted the quill in her fingers, mangling it even further than it had been. "And I have noticed that you've been making an attempt to be civil. I guess, I guess I ought to have been doing the same. Regardless, I didn't mean to chase you out of the library. You can go back to whatever you were doing, I'll leave you alone. I shouldn't have… I just… I'm just not having a very good day, that's all," she finished softly.
He shrugged, and pulled a chair out. "Whatever. It was too dark in the corner anyway; I was giving myself a headache trying to read back there."
"Why didn't you just get a candle?"
"Same reason I didn't just move. I was too comfortable." He smirked.
"Isn't Acedia a cardinal sin?" She quirked the corner of her mouth.
He flashed her a quick grin as he flipped open one of the volumes before him. "I'm a Slytherin, dollface. The lusting, whoring, greed, and backstabbing have already damned me. What's a little laziness on top of all that?"
She snorted in what she suspected was a very inelegant manner. "Dollface? Who talks like that?"
He sighed and rubbed a hand across his eyes. "Damn it, Granger, now you know my dirty little secret." He leaned back in a dramatic pose of sorrowful agony, "Yes, it's true. The great Draco Malfoy reads Mickey Spillane."
"But, he was a Muggle author."
"And a trashy one at that. Don't worry, my parents were properly appalled. Mother actually broke down in tears and asked why I couldn't read porn like a normal boy." He sighed plaintively, and began jotting notes sideways along the margin of an already-crowded piece of parchment.
She blinked, a bit bewildered at the fact that he actually seemed to be joking with her. She sent a silent plea to the universe: ease up on the profound weirdness, just for today. Had enough, thanks. Come back tomorrow. She turned to her Transfiguration homework tentatively; it wouldn't have shocked her if the diagrams in the text had begun to sport Dali's melting clocks.
Quite fortunately, the diagrams and equations were as they'd always been, and she set to work at tackling the theoretical basis to transfiguring seawater into glass. She'd just worked out the energy flux patterns necessary to build the silicate bonds when the clock chimed nine. There was no putting it off any longer, she'd have to go back to the Tower and face the boys. At least she'd gotten some homework in; Professor McGonagall had been so kind, she was determined to do a good job with this. She hadn't gotten as far as she'd have liked to, but she was fairly confident no one else had managed to figure out the mechanism to purify the seawater of reactive sodium. She'd be willing to bet that Transfiguration would be rather more explosive than usual, tomorrow. No matter how many times McGonagall explained the theory behind manipulating the energy of elementary particle fields, they just never seemed to get it.
Malfoy must have noticed her rolling her eyes, because he shot her an inquisitive glance as he shuffled his scrolls together. When she didn't respond, he followed up with a query: "Transfiguration not going well? I thought you were good at that."
There were two ways to take a comment like that. In deference to the truce, or whatever it was that they'd accomplished, she decided not to take offence. "It's not problems, so much, as a dread of other people's incompetence. Plus, I'll probably wind up having to explain the lesson to them anyway."
He smirked. "Incompetence is the word – that's why I skipped. I probably should have gone, 'cos I never did figure out how to stabilize my glass; it'd hold for a few seconds, then start dripping. But I figured I'd rather not be in the hospital wing during Friday's match."
"Were there many casualties, do you know?" She'd forgotten that the Slytherins had their Transfiguration lesson at the beginning of the week.
"A couple desks." He shrugged. "McGonagall had Snape assisting, so no one was messing around much."
Madam Pince had begun to extinguish the candles near the Restricted Section, so Hermione hurriedly repacked her bag. Malfoy began to move off in the direction of the circulation desk, his tower of books floating along beside him. She followed, and waited while he filled out the library cards. When he'd finished, he seemed surprised to find that she was still there. She suddenly felt foolish. Why hadn't she just left? It wasn't as if they were friends, or anything.
"So, erm, I guess I'll see you around, then. Good luck against Ravenclaw, I suppose." She pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the corridor.
"And am I supposed to think there's no self-interest in those warm wishes?" His tone was droll, but calculating.
"Sorry?"
"I refuse to believe that you don't follow Quidditch."
"I don't, really."
He looked at her as if she'd suddenly sprouted an extra limb. "Astonishing. I really have to explain this?"
"Apparently." Vexation had begun to creep into her voice.
"Potter never does well against curvy Seekers, and Mei Chang's curvier than most. Plus, didn't he date her sister? He's just not aggressive around her, so the Gryffindor Chasers do most of the work, while he waits for an opportunity to catch the Snitch in a gentlemanly fashion. Everyone knows that it'll be better for you lot if you wind up playing Slytherin in the finals as opposed to Ravenclaw."
She shrugged. It was just Quidditch. Really, she couldn't see why "everyone" would waste so much time speculating about Harry's psychology.
"It occurs to me," Malfoy had stopped dead in his tracks, his head cocked to one side, "that Slytherin would probably have an advantage if we got someone pretty for Seeker."
"Oh, I wouldn't sell yourself short." She regretted the flippant remark the instant it left her mouth. That was her problem in a nutshell – saying things merely because they were too clever to keep to herself.
She relaxed, though, when he chuckled. "Unfortunately, Potter seems to be immune to my considerable charms."
She couldn't think of anything to say to that that he wouldn't take badly, so they walked the remainder of the corridor in silence. The absurdity of the situation struck her once more as they rounded the corner in concert. Since when did she wander around with Draco Malfoy, as if they were the best of friends? But then, he had driven himself to the point of gasping exhaustion that night, laying down hexes on the walled ranks of Voldemort's Death Eaters, duelling his mad aunt.
"Malfoy?"
"Yeah?"
"Erm, are we, umn, is this a truce? Or, what?"
"I guess. Don't worry, Slytherins don't really have lice. I expect they tell you that back in first year, but I assure you, my grooming is quite immaculate."
She shook her head. "Do you know, I never expected you to have a sense of humour."
"Well, when's the last time you actually had a conversation with me?"
"Never, actually. At least, not one that didn't involve us hurling insults and hexes."
"There's your problem, then. 'Night." He swept off towards the dungeons, leaving her with a considerable amount of self-reflection to do.
Author's Note: How do you guys feel about the characterization? How're you liking this? All the love to people who comment, and somewhat less love for drive-by readers (at least tell me what you don't like!).
