The Fire and the Rose Part 7
Disclaimer: Anyone and anything you recognise belongs to J K Rowling; the story, however, is ours
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MetroVampire & Rhosymedre
Friday morning arrived and did not find Hermione Granger rested in the slightest.
She had left Snape in the corridor the night before and headed for his rooms like a fugitive seeking sanctuary before reaction to the day's events could set in. Had she been less tired and stressed she might have taken more time to observe her surroundings. As it was, she simply had the impression of a large, spacious area which was both more comfortable and more cluttered that she would have expected, and infused with an almost tangible sense of the presence of the man himself.
Firmly dismissing the concept of exploration, Hermione had made enough investigations to discover the bedroom. With a blatant disregard of the obvious facts, she told herself that things would look better in the morning, and simply prayed that Slytherin House would make it through the night without needing for assistance of its Head of House.
Her - very brief - survey of Snape's bedroom had failed to reveal pyjamas or a nightshirt... or sleeping attire of any description, in fact. Which meant that he slept... well... naked. After her experience in the men's toilets, Hermione had thought that she was ready for just about anything.
Apparently, she had been wrong.
She had swallowed and decided that there was in character and there was in character. After all, she thought savagely, it's not as if anyone else was an expert on what the man wore in bed. That night, the Potions Master would be wearing underwear. And liking it.
Gingerly, she had undressed and slid under the covers, where she found sleep distinctly elusive. Not only was she in a strange bed, but her body refused point blank to relax. She had counted sheep. She had tried a number of relaxation techniques that her father recommended for the drill-phobic. But still she tossed and turned, dozing, and then starting awake at the unfamiliar cracks and creaks of the room.
No wonder he spends so much time prowling the corridors at night.
At half past four in the morning, after a few hours of fitful sleep, her semi-conscious search for a solution to their current predicament had finally brought her to full wakefulness. She examined the conclusion and miserably abandoned all hope of further sleep. Deciding that she might as well make the best of it she cast Lumos and had a brief look at the table beside the bed. There were three or four books with markers in them at various points. Selecting A Historie of Potion Making in Northern Bohemia, she began to read.
By six thirty her eyes were heavy, her mouth tasted foul and her face itched. She decided that she might as well get dressed and go to breakfast, despite the fact that she knew that he rarely appeared. Apart from anything else, she ought to check that he hadn't done anything dreadful to Gryffindor Tower overnight. She put down the book and scratched her face, freezing when her hand encountered rough stubble.
Shaving.
Sighing, she pulled herself out of bed and made her way into the bathroom. One look in the mirror confirmed the need to deal with the problem. Some unshaven men could look distinctly sexy. Snape was not one of them. Five o'clock shadow on him was definitely not a pretty sight.
There was a worn, velvet case next to the sink. She opened it and her heart sank.
A cut throat razor.
Of course. What else would he use?
There was no denying that at that moment she was more than tempted to slit Snape's throat, but reluctantly admitted that doing it whilst she was actually occupying his body was probably not a good idea. And of all the charms that she ever thought she would need, one for removing unwanted facial hair was not one of them. At least not before she was fifty. Gritting her teeth she retrieved his wand from the bedroom.
Back in the bathroom, she regarded the razor with trepidation. So far the only spells she had cast with his wand were simple ones. It felt a bit odd, but they seemed to work properly. Transfiguration was a little more tricky. Nervously, she pointed at the wickedly sharp piece of metal. Power flowed through the wand, a little sluggishly, then it shimmered, and blurred, and turned into a conventional, wet, safety razor.
Hermione felt a little better. She had, after all, wet shaved her own legs before without severing an artery. And she had watched her father use a razor. She found something that looked like shaving foam and lathered her face. How hard could this be?
Harder than it looked was the answer. The strong bones of his cheeks and the total lack of spare flesh gave his face an unexpectedly uneven surface. She drew the razor across his skin in hesitant, jerky movements. She moved on to his neck, gingerly working round his Adam's apple as the angle of her head made it difficult for her to see what she was doing. Then she struggled with the awkward, small movements over his top lip and chin. She rinsed off the shaving foam and hissed in annoyance at the obvious missed patches.
She picked up the shaving brush and started again. This time the friction was significantly less, and in her surprise she got the angle of the blade wrong. A tell tale sting told her that she had cut herself. Muttering a curse under her breath, she continued more carefully. Rinsing a second time showed her that the stubble had been dealt with.
Which just left the thin trickles of blood making their way down her face.
Picking up the wand again she cast the simplest of all possible healing spells. Fate appeared to be with her - or at least temporarily ignoring her. The cuts healed without trace. She breathed a sigh of relief. She could not have faced telling Snape that he had cut himself shaving.
This would need practice, she thought gloomily. As would the use of his wand. Despite his remarks about foolish wand waving she wasn't going to get away with not using it at all. She got some more practice by transfiguring a quill into a toothbrush. Training and inclination made it nearly impossible for her to go out in the morning without cleaning her teeth. She briefly considered the question of a shower. In its favour, it might wake her up. Against it, it would mean being... well... not dressed. After a moment she decided that the issue of Snape Unclothed could wait for the evening. Or at least until after she had spoken to him about a solution to this situation. Just in case he had had an inspiration....
Tired, bad tempered, preoccupied and with the beginnings of a foul headache, Hermione made her way to the Great Hall and breakfast. Seating herself in his place, she glanced reflexively towards the Gryffindors. He was sitting where he should be, piling food onto a plate. She noted a covert glance in her direction as his hand hovered momentarily over the bacon.
Don't you dare, she thought, maliciously catching his eye. His hand moved towards the eggs. And what in Hell's name had he done - or not done - to her hair?. Her headache intensified.
"Ah, Severus," came the cheery voice from further up the table.
For the first time in her life, Hermione was less than thrilled to hear the voice of Albus Dumbledore. Never at her most responsive in the morning, she just didn't feel up to his unique brand of cheeriness.
"What a pleasure to see you at breakfast for a change. You'll be having your usual, I suppose?"
She simply nodded and a large mug of black coffee appeared in front of her. Nothing else did, so she assumed that was breakfast as far as Snape was concerned. Which was just as well. She felt too queasy to eat.
She sipped at the coffee distractedly, feeling the caffeine hit somewhere at the back of her skull. By the time she had finished her head still ached and her temper was not noticeably sweeter, but she did at least feel awake. The Gryffindors began to file out and she stood herself, aiming to intercept Snape before he left. She reached him as he was still sipping at a glass of water. Her hair looked even worse close to. And she realised that he hadn't bothered with makeup. No wonder she looked a mess. She supposed there was no hope for the makeup at the moment. But that hair had to be dealt with.
"Miss Granger, a word if you please," she stated, and marched out of the Hall.
Perversely pleased with the way that she had summarily dispatched him and hoping that she hadn't sounded too nervous about the lunchtime meeting, she strode towards the dungeons and her first class as Snape.
Theoretically, there should be no problem. First years. Combined Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. The youngest students of the two most biddable houses. None of them should have sufficient experience of Snape to be able to detect inconsistencies of behaviour. And she was teaching an easy potion.
However, as she put her hand on the classroom door nerves threatened to overwhelm her. The effort of pushing them down fixed her face in a scowl as she entered and swept to the front of the class. She was rewarded with a sea of faces whose expressions ranged from the nervously wary to the frankly terrified.
She stared at them wondering what on earth to say.
"Today we will be making the standard potion to cure warts." They just looked at her.
She began to panic. What were they waiting for? She wondered what Snape would do, and then remembered the staff meeting.
"What are you waiting for?" she asked coldly. "Written permission from your parents? Get the list of ingredients from page 47 of your textbook and begin." There was a flurry of activity as books, quills and parchments were found.
The lesson passed peacefully enough. No one poisoned anyone, no cauldrons were melted and most of the potions worked as specified in the instructions. Hermione prowled the room, nervous and strung out from lack of sleep and an unexpected injection of caffeine early in the day. She even managed to remember to find reasons to take house points from people. Nobody looked at her quizzically. In fact, she noticed, that nobody looked at her at all. When she finally dismissed the class the departure was only one step removed from headlong flight.
Her head still ached and her shoulders were tense, both from nerves and from the strain of holding her posture upright. Her back muscles hadn't had this much exercise since her three ill-fated years of ballet lessons as a child. The pain did nothing for her temper as she strode to lunch. She barely registered the students, skittering out of her way as she passed.
At the staff table she ate mechanically, unable to pull her gaze away from Harry, Ron and herself. The food sat heavily in her stomach, reminding her that she shortly had to teach not only her friends, but her teacher. She watched the three get up and leave together. She remembered that she had arranged to meet Snape, but he was heading purposefully for Gryffindor Tower. In sudden panicked fury she thought that he was avoiding her, intending to just abandon her to the situation.
Oh no you don't, you bastard, she thought, slipping away from the table and pursuing him. She caught up with him just before he got to the Tower.
"Miss Granger, I believe we had an appointment." She leant against a doorframe, crossing her arms and trying to concentrate on the fact that she was furious rather than terrified.
He looked startled, then angry and obviously bit off what he was about to say.
"I'm sorry... Professor...," he managed. "I was on my way back to collect some books. I assumed that you would want to meet in the classroom."
She just nodded. Part of her was aware that the real Snape would probably have taken points off her for that, but relief meant that she couldn't quite bring herself to do that.
"Very well." She tried for curt. It seemed to succeed. "Get your books and we'll talk on the way to the dungeons. Given that we are both now here. Be quick," she added with a hint of malice.
He nodded, and left. Hermione resisted the temptation to massage her temples. Her headache seemed to be getting worse. A few moments later he reappeared, laden with books. Together they headed for class.
By the time they reached the classroom Hermione had a very clear idea of what was to be taught that afternoon. She also felt like a babysitter for anxious parents. Only her ingrained habit of respect towards teachers prevented her from snapping at him that she was well aware where the Infirmary was. That, and the fact that she was aware that he was deliberately trying to irritate her enough to make her behave like him.
She unconsciously lengthened her stride, taking a deep breath and blanking the girl beside her. Think Snape she told herself, perfectly conscious of the irony. She reached the door at speed, pushed it open and entered. She allowed her momentum to carry her to the front of the class registering Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, Harry... no Potter, Weasley, Longbottom.... She turned on her heel and saw that Snape had lagged behind a little. She raised an eyebrow.
"In your own time, Miss Granger. We can all wait." She saw his eyes glitter suddenly. Irritation, nerves, caffeine and headache all came together in one satisfied and slightly vindictive smile. Now he knows what it feels like.
Snape hurriedly took his seat next to Har.. Potter. She noted his brief sympathetic smile in Snape's direction, debated making a remark, and decided to let it go.
"This afternoon," she declared, "you will be attempting to brew Polyjuice Potion again. I expect today's lesson to be markedly less dramatic than yesterday. I trust I do not need to reiterate the basics. Please begin."
Malfoy was smirking in the direction of Neville Longbottom. She itched to say something and remembered that she couldn't. Her scowl at that was utterly genuine.
It was not an understatement to say that the lesson was a nightmare. Even by the standards of Potions classes.
She was conscious the entire time of Snape's presence, knowing that he was watching her, judging her performance. Whenever she turned his eyes were following her. And worse, his hand was in the air. Suggestion after suggestion, carefully disguised as innocent questions about method and practice, interrupted the class.
Eventually she growled, "Miss Granger, I suggest that you read those books that you so assiduously carry around with you and leave me to teach the class. You can then destroy your posture to some purpose, and I will get some peace," hoping to discourage him. Harry and Ron just concentrated intently on the their cauldron avoiding her eye. Ron muttered something in Snape's direction. She devoutly hoped that it was "shut up."
His continual distractions kept her edgy and off balance, which in turn made her intolerant with the rest of the class. You would think that at least one of them could follow simple instructions without messing it up, she thought despairingly, as she deducted five points from Dean Thomas through gritted teeth. The fact that she couldn't take her frustration out on the grinning Slytherins only made it worse.
She was about to do another circuit of the classroom, when she saw to her horror that Neville was, once again, about to put the boomslang skin in at the wrong time.
Neville, for Gods' sake. Why do you have to do this to me today?
She waited for Snape to stop him, as she would have had she been ... well... herself. He made no move, but his expression clearly indicated that he knew what was going on. Her frayed temper finally gave way.
"Longbottom," she roared.
Neville froze. She made her way round to the cauldron, and slammed her hand into the table top making him jump back a little.
"Did nothing about yesterday register with you, Mr Longbottom? And you, Miss Granger," she said rounding on Snape. "I would have thought that, under the circumstances, you would be more careful rather than less around Longbottom. If you paid attention to your partner, rather than what was happening elsewhere in the room, we might actually succeed in getting through a lesson without a major accident. Mr Longbottom, that will be twenty points from Gryffindor. Miss Granger that will be twenty points from Gryffindor and detention this evening."
A stunned silence greeted this outburst. She surveyed the room will undisguised ill-humour. She could see the beginnings of triumphant smirks on the faces of the Malfoy team. Enough, she thought.
"And Mr Malfoy, I would advise you and your friends also not to try my patience any further today." The smile froze on Malfoy's face, half formed. Good. "Get back to work," she finished with a snap.
To her absolute astonishment everyone meekly obeyed. Even Snape watched Neville rather than her, and she saw him intervene on a couple of occasions to prevent further mistakes. She continued to prowl the room, trying not to think about the fact that she had just given herself detention. Let alone the number of points she had taken from her own house.
However, the lesson finished without incident. All the potions were successful. No more house points were lost by anybody. As the last of the class filed out she leant back against the desk and closed her eyes, completely wrung out by the day.
Eight o'clock that evening found her pacing the empty Potions room, waiting for Snape to arrive and trying to forget a chance remark by Minerva McGonagall to Ermengarde Sprout, overheard at dinner. She was distracting herself by muttering that she would keep her temper. Would. The door opened and a sulky looking teenage girl walked in without bothering to knock.
He didn't knock. I always knock.
That little detail was all it took to shatter her fragile self control.
"Miss Granger," she said, acid dripping from every word. "I was under the impression that I was in the habit of knocking before I entered a room. Do please tell me at what point today I was cured of it."
Snape glared right back at her.
"Somewhere around the point that I started to mollycoddle my students, I imagine, Professor Snape," he retorted, matching her tone.
"I'm astonished I managed to do anything to your classes with you barracking me every five minutes," she returned furiously. "And whilst we're on the subject of classes, what about mine? I overheard Professor McGonagall telling Professor Sprout that I was not on top form today. What did she mean by that exactly?"
Snape drew breath to answer, but Hermione's anger, suppressed all day, just swept her on.
"And what about my hair? And did it ever occur to you that I own makeup for a reason, not just to decorate the bathroom? And have you seen how much food you're eating? Do you think I want to be the size of a hippogriff when I get my body back?"
She stopped pacing and collapsed in a chair, uncaring as to whether she had adopted the proper Snape posture. Snape himself just looked at her impassively.
"Have you quite finished?" The voice was cold, but calm.
She waved a hand at him in dismissal.
"There are more important considerations than your vanity. Have you ever seen me rebuke Draco Malfoy, for example? Have you ever seen me be understanding about careless errors? Have you ever seen me invite a class to do anything? And may I take this opportunity to mention that I regularly change my clothes? Do you have any idea of the danger we are both in? Have you truly grasped the consequences to both of us if we are discovered?"
It occurred to her that Snape's voice sounded more tense than angry. She looked at him, straightening in her chair a little.
"This is not a game, Miss Granger," he said, sounding tired. "You do not just have to pretend to be me. You actually have to be me."
"And you have to be me," she pointed out more calmly. "It may seem like vanity to you, but I am an eighteen year old girl. Being neat and tidy and doing well in class are important to me. And people will notice if you neglect that."
They were both silent.
"Do you have any ideas about how to cure this?" she asked after a while, hoping against hope that he would have a solution.
He gave a sigh.
"Yes, but it has a distinct drawback."
That sounded nastily like the same conclusion she had reached in the middle of the night.
"Mandrake root then," she stated flatly.
She was gratified to see his eyes widen in surprise.
"It is the solution that is most likely to be reliably effective," he confirmed.
Mandrake root was the chief constituent in potions to restore people to their natural forms. Hermione remembered being dosed with it once before, when she had been petrified by the basilisk. Unfortunately it was now late September and the mandrakes were only seedlings. They could not be used in any potion until they were mature. Which would be in about Easter of the following year. Which meant that they were stuck like this for at least six months. Unless they could find another solution.
Six months. Six whole months of being Snape.
She didn't know whether to laugh, scream or cry.
"Oh Gods," she said weakly.
"Indeed," he agreed.
She bit her lip, then abruptly stopped as it occurred to her that Snape didn't do that. She expected that he didn't bury his head in his hands and wail either. She settled for closing her eyes and praying for a miracle. Or at least for her head not to explode.
Her attention was brought back to herself by a voice saying "Drink this." She opened her eyes to see Snape offering her a glass of dark red liquid.
"What is it?" she asked, half hoping that it was poison. Or at least a six month sleeping draught.
"Willowbark and valerian compound. We need to discuss some things and I thought that it might be easier if you didn't have a tension headache."
His tone was indifferent, but she was grateful for the gesture. She drank the bitter liquid and felt the tight band across her forehead begin to loosen.
"How did you know?" she asked, wondering absurdly if their connection gave him some sort of special insight.
"Lucky guess," he said with a faint hint of irony. "I have never yet finished a Friday without a headache."
As the pain receded rationality began to kick in.
"We're going to need to meet regularly then," she said thoughtfully, "and I can't keep giving you detention. Even you don't do that to me on a daily basis. People will comment."
"Yes," he remarked blandly, "although I confess that I found some irony in the fact that I would probably not have given you detention this afternoon, had we been in our accustomed roles. I would certainly have deducted points from both you and Mr Longbottom, however."
She glared at him, before she internally conceded the black humour. She felt her mouth reluctantly twitch in acknowledgement. For an instant she felt a flash of perfect understanding between them. It was most disconcerting.
"A research project, then," he continued. "Something that will justify frequent meetings and will give us a chance to start working on something that will work faster than mandrake root. "She looked at him sharply. "Yes," he said, with evident malice, "I do indeed expect you to make a contribution to this effort."
She just nodded. Anything to avoid six months of... this.
"We should meet over the weekend to work out the details," she proposed. "How abut tomorrow afternoon? We were planning to go to Hogsmeade but you should be able to get out of it if you tell Harry and Ron that I gave you an essay to do and you need to go to the library. They'll believe that. Of both of us," she added rather pointedly.
"Agreed," he said shortly. He then reached into the bag and placed a sheaf of parchment on the table. "Here. You'll want these as well." She looked at them in disbelief.
"What's this?" she asked.
"Your transfiguration class notes. And your homework."
She looked at the scrawl in front of her.
How exactly was she supposed to make sense of this?
She fought the impulse to sigh audibly.
Details indeed.
