AN: Thank you ALL for your wondrous reviews. They literally brought tears to my eyes this morning. I had been a bit down about writing these last few months as this year was the first year in three that I failed at National Novel Writing Month, and I had just about had myself convinced that my writing skills were nonexistent. Thank you, each and every one of you, for restoring my faith in myself. :)
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Professor Flitwick was absolutely flummoxed. He rested his gnarled little hands on his hips and, with a wordless Wingardium Leviosa, he floated up to inspect the charred remains what had so recently been his handiwork.
"What kind of student would attack a Christmas tree?" he exclaimed under his breath. "A Christmas tree, for Merlin's sake!"
What kind of student indeed, Severus thought as he pocketed his wand and stalked silently away. Bah humbug. He had given into temptation and taken out his rage on the defenseless decoration, and he refused to feel a smidgen of guilt. He wasn't made of stone after all, and he wouldn't abide this "LaGrange" chit much longer. If only Albus would reveal her identity. He knew. Oh, there was no doubt that the infuriating old man knew perfectly well the identity of the mysterious author in their midst, who sat several times a week in his own classroom, the impudent thing.
LaGrange's new release the past week of the second installment of what he found out to be a trilogy had caused something inside him to snap. The titles were unmistakeable: Bottled Fame, Brewed Fortune, and the much-anticipated-by-every-witch-with-more-X-chromosomes-than-brains Stoppered Death. He'd never be able to properly strike fear into the heart of first years again! This was deliberate mockery at its worst. She was shoving it in his face with no shame at all.
And he'd even resorted to reading the thrice damned things at that. Desperate times indeed. Septimus Scarpe acted like he was the lovechild between Severus and Gilderoy Lockhart, and if that wasn't enough to bring the bile to the back of his throat, he didn't know what was. Sure, Septimus had a commendable knowledge of the potions he was portrayed making—at least LaGrange hadn't sought to tarnish his professional reputation in his field—and the character did share some of his more iconic physical traits, such as the just-past-the-shoulder hair and the prominent nose, but the author had tweaked it just enough so that the resemblances could be defended as merely circumstantial. Septimus Scarpe's hair was chestnut brown, not shoe polish black, and the character had brown eyes to match, not the flat black disks that glittered beneath the potion master's eyebrows. LaGrange also had Septimus in the most ridiculous muggle get-ups, leather pants and all. Severus was never more thankful for his frock coats and teaching robes as when he read about that.
And it didn't help, of course, that Septimus acted like a bloody ponce, prancing around almost like the main character in that hideous American muggle film Albus had insisted on taking the staff to see, Indiana Jim or some such nonsense. Septimus was always swooping in to save the day, brewing a potion on the edge of a cliff, adding ingredients with his teeth as he clutched his wand in one hand and a knife in the other, all for the sake of some simpering girl. LaGrange hadn't bothered fleshing out the female's character that much as, after all, the targeted audience was much more interested in Septimus.
And yet, Severus couldn't shake the feeling that the author was trying to hide herself by making the female lead the nearly-anonymous curvaceous brunette, as if she was afraid she'd write too much of herself into the character and give up the game.
"Gah!" Severus grunted as he slammed his hand against the corridor's stone wall, causing a Hufflepuff second year to faint in shock. He needed a plan of action, something to unsettle LaGrange enough to show some sign that would reveal herself.
And, as he arrived at his quarters and sunk into his favorite leather armchair, he knew just the thing.
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Hermione stumbled down to breakfast the next morning, bleary-eyed and blinking. She had already snapped enough at her two companions that Harry and Ron were giving her a wide berth. Flickering the most minute of glances toward the professors' table, she went limp with relief. Professor Snape's chair was empty.
She whipped out her parchment and pen, grumbled "Homework!" to the boys, and scribbled like a fiend. Having been up until an hour before dawn working on this draft, she wanted to push through and get it finished as soon as possible. She had never been able to write like this before the Septimus Scarpe trilogy. She had been an efficient producer of pages, that was for sure, enough to keep Mr. Lovegood worshiping the ground she walked on, but this time, the storyline flowed out of her mind faster than she could write it down. She chalked it up to the fact that she had a real, living inspiration for the main character, one she interacted with several times a week. Surely that had to be what was making the writing easier.
But... That didn't explain the dream she had last night, the dream where Septimus Scarpe had rescued her, Hermione Granger, instead of the ambiguous Amy Carlyle. Except, oddly enough, Septimus hadn't had the features she had given him. Oh, he had the leather pants and all, Hermione remembered with a shiver, but it was black hair that dusted the collar of his shirt, and black eyes in which she couldn't help but lose herself.
No! She couldn't let herself read too much into this. It was probably just her subconscious weaving together her thoughts about the book and her stress about Professor Snape catching on. She had to stay focused. She'd promised Lovegood this draft by New Year's.
It was only the baleful call of "C'mon, 'Mione, we can't be late for potions," that roused her from her writing. How could she have forgotten double potions this morning? Oh well, she thought to herself, Professor Snape wasn't the only one that could pull off being sneaky around here. Plus, it wasn't even like this was the first potions class since her trilogy began. It's the first since you started dreaming of him, her traitorous subconscious informed in a Snape-like sneer, and she pushed that voice to the back of her head with a firm mental Sod off!
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The braver students of the class attempted to converse in hushed tones as the students awaited their professor's arrival. The Slytherins lounged, looking aristocratically bored, and Hermione made a game out of counting the number of times they casually inspected already clean nails or preened smoothly gelled hair. The Gryffindors fidgeted, and she slapped Ron's hand when he reached to chuck a flobberworm at Harry. She was so focused on telling off the unapologetic Weasley that she completely missed the hush that blanketed the classroom, and she mistook Ron's blanching as her cue of a job well done.
"Miss Granger, I would appreciate it if you would leave your foolish drama in the corridor when you come to class. Five points from Gryffindor for unnecessary disruption."
Hermione huffed and turned around, about to toss a sullen "Sorry, Sir," his way, when her breath decided that it would give up forming coherent words and take up gymnastics in her vocal cords instead. All the muscles in her face froze, and the only thing that masked her choked gasp from detection was the fact that roughly half of the room's occupants, the half in skirts, was simultaneously making the exact same noise that she was.
Severus Snape stood leaning against the door frame in dragon-hide boots, leather pants, a white collared shirt, and a shadow of overnight stubble. In other words, the dream man that nearly every straight female of the wizarding world (and quite a few of the men, Hermione had been amused to hear) longed for had entered the potions classroom like nothing was amiss.
He strode up the center aisle between the desks, coming to a stop in front of his customary podium and work table in the front of the room.
"Today, we will begin our unit on potions that affect the physiological responses of the body..."
Physiological responses were occurring up a storm in the classroom just then, and without the aid of potions at that. Hermione's breath hitched, and she couldn't stop examining her Professor. He had gotten every little detail right, from the fact that Septimus never buttoned the first two buttons on his shirt to the exact color of the pants and boots to... well, everything except Septimus' ponytail.
It wasn't until Hermione's close scrutiny rewarded her with the perception that Snape's probing glance fell upon every female member of the class in turn that the realization of what he was doing pushed through the haze of hormones in her mind. That crafty bastard! She steeled her expression into one of polite academic interest seasoned with the amount of surprise in the eyes of the more reserved members of the class, and she met his gaze evenly when he moved to her. He didn't dare use legilimency on a student in the classroom, not with so many witnesses, and he moved on. Hermione noticed that she had forgotten to breathe for the last minute or so, and she forced herself to calm down and tune back in to his lecture.
"... and I am positively sick of seeing poor potion-brewing standards in this classroom. Do you dunderheads understand the effects that even the tip of a hair could cause lest it be allowed to dangle in a volatile potion?"
And with that admonishment, he pulled out a braided leather cord from pocket—no, the braided leather cord—and proceeded to tie his hair back into a sleek low tail at the base of his neck. Hermione needn't have worried about missing the lecture, as the lesson had to be abruptly stopped as Lavender Brown, Parvati Patil, and, surprisingly enough, Pansy Parkinson, had all managed to swoon into their cauldrons.