Disclaimer: Anyone and anything you recognise belongs to J K Rowling; the story, however, is ours
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MetroVampire & Rhosymedre
Snape stretched and stirred, waking slowly to a room full of dark red light; he blinked, wondering where he was - his rooms were never this dark and light together.
The scratch of cotton on skin abruptly reminded him of where he was and who he was.
And what he had done last night.
He closed his eyes tightly, a childish rejection of the truth that he was going to have to live with for the next few months. Two days - just two days - since the potions accident. He felt as though he'd lived a thousand years in those forty-eight hours.
Lying in bed, though, would solve absolutely nothing. He threw back the covers, unable to bear the sensation against bare skin any longer - it was no mystery now why Hermione preferred to wear nightclothes. He would do the same - no matter how much they twisted around him and woke him up - rather than deal with the arousing scratch of newly-washed crisp cotton. It was either that or persuade the house-elves not to wash the bed linen so frequently. Somehow, just somehow, Snape thought that such a request might not go unremarked upon.
The cool air of morning made him shiver as he got out of the bed; he padded across to the window and opened the heavy curtains. This high above the grounds of Hogwarts there was little chance that anyone would be able to see him. He could, though, see himself quite clearly in the morning light that washed into the room, no longer filtered by the curtains.
He had - steadfastly - avoiding looking at the body he inhabited. But, after last night's ... entertainment ... he rather felt that he had broken every last possible opportunity to retain some measure of Hermione's privacy. So he looked at his reflection at last.
Slim - probably too slim, he thought critically, too many missed meals studying in the library - but with definite promise for the woman she was becoming. He was becoming - and would become, if they couldn't find a way out of this. Snape turned away from the window and the unforgiving light, fleeing both the encroaching depression and his study of his body. The latter was making him uncomfortable - arousal was not his usual reaction when looking at his own body. Come to that, it was not his usual reaction when he looked at Hermione either - or anyone else. He had trained that particular response from his psyche a long time ago.
The shower - he needed to shower, to wash away any lingering suggestion of what he had done during the night, and to avoid incurring the wrath of Hermione if he went one more day without washing her hair.
The bathroom was tolerably familiar by now, even if he still had little - if any - clue what half the bottles that decorated it were for. He searched carefully, inclined simply to grab the bar of soap that sat on the ledge of the basin, but well aware that there was bound to be some reason for the bottles. Hermione would probably be able to tell - and, right now, he was less than eager for an argument over something so trivial.
And, if he were truthful with himself, this body was rather more entertaining than his own. Taking care of it might be more rewarding as well.
That train of thought was slapped away rapidly - the dark of night was one thing, easier to justify and dismiss. The light of day was something else, requiring acknowledgement of the rapture and the surrender.
Snape stood in the middle of the bathroom looking around him, focussing on the task he had come in to accomplish and avoiding the reflection in the mirror. The bottles on the edge of the bath seemed the obviously place to find whatever it was that Hermione used.
Five minutes later, Snape sat on the edge of the bath - appalled and fascinated. The sheer variety was startling; three different types of shampoo, something called conditioner - when he'd read the information on the bottle, he assumed it was necessary to tame the curls which rioted through his hair - and shower gel, the most practically named bottle that he'd found so far. Again, there were several varieties. He'd picked shampoo, conditioner and shower gel by scent - he was going to have to spend the day with the scent, so it seemed the best way to select them.
Then - well, then he'd read the bottles more closely. In particular, the ingredients list. Idle curiosity, really, just to see what sort of ingredients the Muggles used. Curiosity had given way to appalled fascination - nothing natural in any of the bottles, even when he had translated the ridiculous names into their more commonplace equivalents. He could see what they were aiming to achieve but there were infinitely simpler - and less hazardous! - ways of doing the same thing, none of which involved any magic. Adding magic to the equation would make them more effective, but it was not essential.
He really needed to talk this through with Hermione - she might not object to using such things but he was not exactly enthusiastic about having to do so. This once, though, he was simply going to have to deal with it. He was immensely grateful to the manufacturers for the scents they had added - of course, if they hadn't used such appalling ingredients to start with, no scents would be necessary ...
Snape lost himself in the scalding steam from Hogwarts' inexhaustible supply - even this far up in the towers the pressure was blissful, sloughing off sleep and thought in the mist that rose around him.
Washing himself was interesting - rapid, harsh, strokes with a flannel to try to avoid the sensations of night. His hair took a surprisingly long time to shampoo - although the conditioner was interesting; it slicked down the hair to a manageable texture.
Finally, pink from the heat, he stepped out of the bath searching for a towel - there were several on a stool nearby, and he grabbed the largest from the bottom of the pile, dislodging the others onto the floor where they soaked up the water that had pooled in various places where it had splashed as he showered.
He wrapped the towel around himself, covered from the gaze of the misted mirror, and another around his hair - it was going to take some time to dry off the mass that twisted down his back now.
What else did he need to do?
Having spotted a toothbrush, he dared to glance in the mirror as he cleaned his teeth. The reflection he saw there made him flinch; it was hard enough knowing that his body was different. To see a different face altogether was harder still - although, he supposed, it would have been beyond peculiar to see his own face on Hermione's body.
The mint toothpaste tasted very odd and, almost not wanting to know, he checked the ingredients list for that as well.
He really was going to have to talk to Hermione. Had she learnt nothing in potions classes? He was rather surprised that she didn't simply make up her own cleansing potions and pastes - she had certainly learnt the information needed to do so, all it would take was a little sideways thought to apply the knowledge which her examination results confirmed she had taken in during his class - and in Herbology classes.
Finally dry - his skin, at least - Snape faced the next challenge of the day. Casual clothes. The safety of school uniform would not be enough today. He stood in front of the wardrobe now, still wrapped in towels, barefoot and stared balefully at the selection of clothes in there.
Short skirts. No. Definitely not. He had seen Hermione wear them at weekend - if he forced himself to think about it, they had suited her. That did not matter at all, in the slightest. He was not going to deal with skirts that length - he wasn't particularly enthralled about having to deal with them as part of school uniform but at least that exposed rather less - particularly when covered by school robes.
Jeans it would have to be; a Muggle invention that wizards - particularly the younger wizards - had enthusiastically taken up.
Jeans and a sweater; a handful of clean underwear from one of the drawers of her press. Underwear was a challenge - bras had to have been invented by a masochist; either that, or all women bar Hermione were double-jointed to be able to fasten them at the back, without being able to see what they were doing.
Dressed, all that remained before he ventured out to find breakfast was his hair; and that was a task too far this morning. Snape really could not be bothered to deal with drying it - he would simply tie it back and let it dry on it's own. He'd seen a collection of bands on top of the press, surely all he would need was one of those.
Indeed, all he did need was one. One band and a supply of rapidly-thinning patience. Tugging a brush through his hair had been an interesting - and painful - experience. Knots upon knots; the conditioner clearly did not do its job particularly well. He was unsure whether to admire Hermione for dealing with this every day, or question her intelligence for not having thought to use magic to create a more effective way of dealing with it. Until he was more experienced with her wand, though, he was going to have to do this the hard way as well.
Finally - finally! - he was ready to head down to breakfast. He looked down at himself, trying to forsee Hermione's reaction. Showered, dressed, hair dealt with. Perhaps casual, but it was Saturday and he had no classes. Casual was permissible in students even if he did not permit it in himself.
He murmured 'goodbye' to Crookshanks, vaguely wondering whether he was supposed to feed the cat or something - he had done nothing but ignore it for two days, and it seemed not to be bothered. Presumably it caught its own food or begged something from the kitchens.
After breakfast he faced another round of pressure from Harry and Ron:
"Come on, Hermione, you can't fossilise in here for ever! You'll turn into Binns - haunting the place when you're dead, unable to leave!"
Harry turned out to have an unexpected flare for dramatic statements and rather more sense of humour than Snape would have credited him with. Ron was more predictable.
"Come o-o-on, Hermione," he moaned. "You've got to come, you're being boring. The library won't fall apart without you."
"I need to work, and I don't want to come," Snape insisted stubbornly. "Just because you don't feel the need to study doesn't mean that I'll go along with what you want. Go together, it's not like you'll be alone."
Aiming for Hermione's tone of voice was becoming easier; the boys shrugged and sauntered off after Harry had asked whether there was anything she wanted them to get for her in Honeymeade. Snape had shook his head and turned to face Lavender and Parvati.
Expecting the same urging from them, he had been surprised when they had simply nodded and brushed past to follow the boys. He watched them go, a little perplexed. The common-room had emptied of all students old enough to be elsewhere, and he finally took himself off to the library. Thankful for Hermione's clearance, he spent the rest of the morning prowling through the Restricted Section, researching the known variations on polyjuice.
Lunch was a quiet meal, with so many away in Hogsmeade. Without the insulation of Harry and Ron, Snape noticed that no-one tried to make conversation - he wondered whether he should say something, but settled for staring at his lunch.
By the time he headed down to the dungeons, he had a headache again - full force between the eyes and twice as painful as last night.
His own voice bidding him to "come in" was all he needed to burst through the door and collapse into a chair.
"What am I doing wrong?" he asked without preamble. "Something isn't working - Harry and Ron are the only ones who talk to me; no-one else seems to dare speak to me. If we're going to get through this without being exposed, you're going to have to coach me or someone is going to say something to the wrong person. What do you do to make conversation with the others in the common-room and at lunch?"
Hermione looked levelly at him.
"Nothing. Welcome to my life, Professor Snape."