a/n - And then there was Chapter 10.
My most sincere thanks to Michelle, a true fan girl at heart, except that she understands things are not always as stiff as we would like.
My warm regards to Shana, who read this chapter many months ago when it was but a shadow of a rough draft.
Thank you all for reading. Lest I bore you, I present…
Volition
Chapter 10
Startled awake by a vague sense of danger, Snape followed his instincts. He reached out blindly to detain the intruder. When he made contact, his suspicions confirmed, he readied his wand, even though his heart was beating nauseatingly fast and he was not entirely conscious. He could not overlook the sudden resurgence of pain either, but it was irrelevant if he was under attack.
"Professor!" The shrill cry sliced through his head like shards of glass.
The intruder was a disobedient houseguest. It was the girl--her trembling, frightened squeal. That simplified matters. He lowered his wand and let go of whatever body part he had grabbed.
"Explain yourself," he grumbled as he tried to open his eyes.
"I…I…" she sputtered, clearly upset. "I…I couldn't sleep."
Reeling from the sudden shift in consciousness, Snape opened his eyes, somewhat, his vision blurred by the ache swiftly reclaiming his sleepless body. Irritated by her interruption and his own susceptibility to the pain, Snape pushed his hair out of his face and sat up.
As soon as he achieved a sitting position, a substantial amount of blood exited his head and left him dizzy while his hip filled with an acute pain. He immediately recognized that he should have taken something stronger than willow, mugwort and Firewhisky. No matter his physical discomfort, he had to put his feet to the floor and wake the hell up.
"What time is it?" he asked lowly as he planted both feet on the floor.
His head, bowed forward, felt too heavy to support while he waited for the blood to return and alleviate the wooziness.
"I am so sorry," she whined, taking a swift step backward, seemingly in retreat.
"What time is it?" he repeated more forcefully, lifting his head and disregarding the extreme soreness of his neck muscles.
The veins behind his eyes hammered, promising a fierce headache in the near future, as her figure swam into focus.
The girl hovered on his left, shifting ever so slightly from foot to foot as though she needed the lavatory. She cringed when he made eye contact, further proof that she was perturbed.
"Four, I suppose?" she answered in question. She eyed him cautiously, as though her answer might send him into a violent fit.
"Are you unable to read a clock?" he sneered, putting a hand to his eyes to rub away the drowsiness.
"What?" she squeaked as she stopped fretfully shuffling her feet to stare blankly at him.
"Time is precise, not something you suppose," he sighed, too tired to argue any further.
She did not answer as she plopped down on the sofa. The quake that followed sent shockwaves though Snape's body. He tensed involuntarily, soreness erupting in every muscle, which added the final touches to his headache, now pulsing behind each eye. He took a deep breath, hoping it would prevent him from muttering obscenities, when he detected the pungent odor of grain alcohol.
"Miss Granger, have you been drinking?" he asked as he lowered his hand, his head now hammering so fiercely that her face seemed to distort with each beat of his heart.
"No," she answered miserably, staring helplessly at her chest. "I was trying to save you from dousing yourself with the stuff and wound up dousing myself instead. You're welcome, by the way."
"Well…clean yourself up," he directed, uncertain why she had not already done so. "Unless, or course, you prefer the stench of a distillery."
"I can't," she snapped. The nervousness in her voice promptly gave way to annoyance. "I dropped my wand and I don't know where it landed."
"Why did you drop your wand?" he asked, again in drowsy disbelief.
She glared at him as she replied, "Because someone scared the shit out of me, that's why."
Snape cleared his throat. If she had been a Death Eater prowling about the house, he would not have to apologize for his reflexes, not that he was about to.
"Yes," he said softly. "I am sure they did. Scourgify."
Snape flicked his wand in her general direction. The spell promptly liberated her from the stain and the odor.
"Thanks," she muttered as she inspected the spell's handiwork.
"Now…go to bed," he instructed her, more than prepared to return to a few more hours of rest himself.
"Yes," she replied coldly, glancing up. "About that, I don't know how you expect me to sleep after what you told me."
Snape was at a loss. He was unaware that the matter was open for discussion.
In a fit of sarcasm, he suggested, "Then lie awake, like everyone else."
"No," she countered as she tucked a tuft of hair behind her right ear, a discrete agitation to her tone. "Not when there's work to be done."
The sheer determination the girl was capable of displaying at will impressed Snape, whether or not he felt inclined to admit it. Exhaustion darkened her eyes, which her unkempt hair framed so that she resembled a crazed, although resolute, lunatic. Pale and unusually scruffy, she was a pitiable shadow of her former self, but her indomitable will endured.
If it were at all possible, she was right about the work that needed doing, and he was being selfish about it. The only problem was that this did not bother him in the least. His headache was receding the longer he sat upright, so the hammering now felt like a mere flogging. The invitation to complete his fitful sleep in the study, sitting up in the chair, tempted him far more than their impending lessons.
"What do you expect of me…?" Snape started to say as he rose from his seat.
He intended to stand in a menacing fashion and lecture her before swiftly exiting the room. However, the contusion on his hip caused him to groan as he stood, resembling an old man rising from his rocking chair.
"Are you all right, sir?" she asked, openly concerned.
"Fine," he hissed as he hobbled a few, short steps toward the kitchen.
He paused to let the pain subside. The liquor had dulled his mind enough that he could not relieve the pain. This was another reason why he avoided Firewhisky, or anything stronger than wine, for that matter. It inhibited his ability to block out the pain and had lowered his tolerance to it over time.
"That's funny," Hermione replied dryly, her expression an unsettling combination of worry and suspicion. "I don't remember you limping when you left."
"Nor do I," Snape mumbled as he hobbled back to the sofa.
Very gently, he lowered himself onto the cushion that he had formerly occupied, wincing as he bent his right hip and cursing himself for having been so careless with his medications. Once seated, he rubbed his right shoulder, which joined his hip in protesting his sudden movement. He decided not to punish himself with any further theatrics.
Snape looked to the source of his newest discomfort, eager to rid himself of her as well. Although she gazed back sternly, even stoically, her eyes betrayed her worry, as did her hands. Snape thought that if she rubbed her kneecaps any harder with her palms, she might set fire to them.
"What happened to you?" she asked, sincerely this time.
"You happened," he replied, heaping on the cynicism.
"What did I do to your leg?" she contested, unduly offended, her voice suddenly shrill as her eyes met his again.
"Nothing," he answered in exasperation. "Go to bed."
Instead of obeying, she asked, "Why didn't you heal it?"
Quickly tiring of the conversation, Snape replied flatly, "I did."
"Well…" She drawled, her eyebrows rising into a maddening arch. "You didn't do a very good job, did you?"
After that comment, he was quite ready to relieve himself of her company. "Thank you for that observation, Miss Granger. Now, do as you are told and go to bed!"
"What if I can help you?" she nearly shouted back, her formerly restless hands clutching her knees.
"By doing what?" he scoffed, not voicing the honest laugh he so wanted to. "Aggravating me into oblivion?"
"I know some basic healing spells," she explained, as though that were common knowledge. "And you have plenty of books on the subject."
"Do you honestly believe that I will permit you to come near me with a wand?" he asked in exaggerated awe. "I am familiar with the harm you inflict on foodstuffs."
"That's different and you know it," she contested, visibly insulted. "Conjuring and healing are almost polar opposites when you consider the type of magic they require, and food has its own restrictions and limitations. It is much more complex than, for instance, conjuring decent furniture."
She eyed the sofa with disgust and the flimsy wooden chair across the room before she returned her smug gaze to his.
"The distinction between conjuring and healing is clear," he assured her, mindful of his condescending tone that seemed to amplify by the second. "Conjuring food requires a great deal of style and a modicum of skill, one of which you apparently lack. Conversely, healing requires very little refinement, while it demands a degree of skill, which leads me to this query. Are you technically proficient or perfectly inept?"
Hermione's eyes narrowed as the fingers on both of her hands began to drum against her knees.
"Fine," she replied crossly, shaking her head. "Flail about like a wounded seal. You obviously don't want my help..."
She hesitated, never taking her eyes from his, her drumming fingers slowing to a stop, when a tiny smirk slid across her lips. "On the other hand, I could accidentally tell Professor Dumbledore that you took us to Voldemort."
The last thing he expected from her was a threat, and such a cavalier one at that. She was not one to back down from what she saw as a challenge. Much to Snape's displeasure, she now regarded him as her newest contest. Furthermore, she seemed to enjoy this kind of repartee far too much. If he continued with it, perhaps he could find out why.
Instead of yelling at her, he chose that moment to test her. "You would not dare."
"Try me," she said softly. The arch of her brows and the smirk still scheming on her lips meant trouble.
Snape put a hand to his eyes, more to hide his own burgeoning smirk than anything. She was willing to threaten him in order to help him. That was as funny as it was vexing.
"Fine," he conceded from behind his hand. "The book you want…"
"I know where they are," she interposed as she stood.
Snape peeked through his fingers. He watched her walk toward the front door and wondered if he should stop her. It was very dark on that side of the room and she had not retrieved her wand. Besides, there was really no need to make the trip.
Nonetheless, he waited until she had almost reached the proper section before merely summoning the book.
"Accio Resmarelda's Guide to Healing at Home."
The book slid from the shelf with a muted hiss, whizzed past her head, and smacked directly into his waiting hand. He set the book on the cushion beside him and used a furtive nonverbal charm to summon her wand.
Hermione halted, turned round slowly, and marched back to the sofa. The utterly unimpressed look she wore brought on another smirk that Snape did not bother to conceal.
"You could have said something," she said tersely, avoiding eye contact as she picked up the book and sat. As an afterthought, she added, "Before I got halfway across the room."
"I tried," he replied smoothly.
"How about…"
He held it out in front of her as he asked pointedly, "Retrieving your wand?"
"Thank you," she mumbled as she snatched it away. "You're ever so helpful."
"Hmm," he replied coolly, astonished that he did not have a splinter. "Research bruises."
In a bit of a huff, she lit her wand and opened the book. Such a simple task should not have been so interesting to Snape. For some reason or another, no doubt because of his stupor, he did not deny his curiosity.
He had seen her nose tucked into every book that the Hogwarts Library contained--no doubt a hundred or so more--so her familiar, hunched pose over the pages was not what attracted his attention.
Just when had she ceased fearing him, he questioned. She probably felt responsible for his injuries. The Gryffindor conscience was limitless. Yet, despite her culpability, she had employed quite the Slytherin tactic to get her way. When flat out asking had failed, she resorted to coercion. He wondered when she acquired that particular talent.
Snape was too tired, too very tired to reprimand her now. He was not at all surprised that she retained the childish stubbornness that had infuriated him when she was his student. As she matured, that stubbornness had become willful and self-serving.
Hermione's voice trickled into his winding thoughts.
"I've found the section on bruises," she said quietly, "but I have yet to see anything about healing them. Making them talk, yes. Which begs the question, who in their right mind would want to make one talk?"
She was babbling to herself, sleep-deprived babbling. Snape rested his head on the back of the sofa. The ceiling, yellowed by more than the waning lamplight, looked like welcome nothingness to his tired eyes.
"Set it on fire?" she questioned aloud. "That would defeat the purpose, don't you think?"
He was so very tired. His body hurt absolutely everywhere now, although the headache was all but gone. All he wanted to do was go back to sleep for a while longer, until the liquor metabolized and he could control the pain. Was that such an awful thing to ask?
"Listen to this," she said with a small laugh. "This chapter's called, Shaming the Obstinate Bruise into Submission. I always knew healers were half off their rockers. Now I'm absolutely sure of it…"
He blinked and felt suddenly lightheaded. Struggling against the sensation, he shut his eyes so the sting might wake him up a bit. When he reopened them, he was no longer fatigued. However, he was back in the blonde woman's flat.
It was winter this time, an earlier encounter. Glazed by frost, the windows glowed with bright, silvery light that invaded every corner of the room.
The woman was asleep at his side. For the life of him, he could not recall her name. Was it Amanda? Alana? It started with an A. He was sure of that.
His body was exquisitely numb, as though he had just slept for days. As he stretched his leg, he found hers, a welcome shock of feminine smoothness.
He rolled on his side to inspect her body. She was on her stomach. Folded above her head on the pillow, her arms surrounded a mop of disheveled curls. Hidden by little more than a tawdry, cotton sheet, she was again the faceless body that he craved, which he could appraise without the interruption of her personality.
He moved closer and her body accepted his. There was something superb about the contour of the woman's hip pressed against his stomach. It was natural, as if someone had sculpted her specifically for the purpose.
He rested there for a moment, swept his flaccid self against her thigh while he carefully brushed aside her hair, exposing her neck. With the lightest touch of his fingertips, he traced the back of her shoulders. They were delicate, softly sloped, fragile but strong.
He allowed his fingers to rest at the base of her neck, where the fine hairs prickled under his touch, before his fingertips struck a path from her neck down her spine. They traveled between her shoulder blades, skirting the outline of her backbone as they lowered the sheet.
Every inch uncovered more of her magnolia skin, the occasional freckle marring what appeared a clean canvas, until his fingers fell into the valley where her waist began. He flattened his palm and continued on, pushing the sheet over the rise of her ass.
Only then did he realize that something was amiss. The flesh that met his hand was firm, and there was much less of it. This was a girl, a young woman. This ass absolutely did not belong to his whore.
This time, Snape actually focused his eyes on the woman. The back that he saw was lean and lightly muscled. The waist of this girl, delightfully defined, blossomed into the slender hip snug against his navel.
This was another woman entirely. All the same, Snape remained skeptical. He had never successfully altered one of the Rogue Memories. He had learned long ago that it was impossible. They played out the same, every time. When one emerged or drew him in, such as this one had, he was powerless to deviate from the scheduled path until he completed it or until something or someone interrupted it.
The Rogues had increased in both frequency and intensity over the last several months. His mind produced them when it could no longer handle the strict control essential to the practice of Variable Memory. The Rogue Memory surfaced, demanded his attention or participation, and then returned to its place secreted away in the recesses of his mind. They were but a side effect of Variable Memory, and they were harmless. Irritating, but harmless.
On this February day, twenty years ago, Snape had spent the entire afternoon in bed with Adel, the woman that he, and several others, called their own. The simple fact that he had replaced her with someone else meant that the boundary between his Real Memory and his Variable Memory was deteriorating.
No, he hurried to rationalize. He was not slipping into the world between reality and fantasy. He refused to believe that. He was dreaming, though he had not dreamt once since he began his painstaking adherence to the rules of Variable Memory. The absence of dreams was another unwelcome side effect of the skill, but there were exceptions to every rule.
He had been so exhausted, so utterly spent and frustrated. He had been in so much pain that his mind, in an effort to escape, had repaid him with a dream, and a splendid one at that.
Satisfied with his hasty explanation, he was unwilling to forsake his good fortune. If it was a Rogue, he had to finish it in order to break free from it. If it was a dream, he did not want to waste it since he had no idea when he might have another opportunity to enjoy such a thing.
Pressing his body fully against hers, Snape permitted the lust to seize him. The warmth of her smooth curves silenced his lingering misgivings. She was there for him, waiting for him to wake her, and he was not about to deny her the pleasure of that rousing.
Discarding the pleasantries, he guided his hand over the slope of this new ass until it turned into something else entirely. His fingers parted the flesh of her inner thighs as he trailed his thumb through the hair that awaited him there. She was raw, unshaven. This finding inspired his hips to sway, forcing his now exceptionally stiff dick against her thigh.
He slipped his thumb within to experience her, encounter the temptation hidden there. He closed his eyes when his thumb barely entered her, as he rediscovered the true meaning of the woman's inner beauty.
Would she have it? Why did he want to know? He held his breath throughout a very brief, one-sided internal struggle. Would she think him perverse for doing what he so wanted to? He decided that, as this was his dream, he would do as he liked.
He kicked away the sheets as he scrambled to his knees and buried his nose between her thighs. The animalistic gesture filled his nose with the scent of buttermilk, perverse in its sweetness.
The scent overwhelmed him, animalized him all over again. He would not squander this opportunity. He wanted her, not for the having, but for the taking. He wanted her to give herself to him, give him the innocence that reigned between her thighs.
He could hardly breathe in anticipation as he climbed atop and parted her legs with his knee. He lowered himself onto her as slowly as he could manage with such an undeniable longing steering his mind, blurring his vision, heightening his every sense.
Her ass fit just where her hip had, where he could feel every tiny hair brushing his skin. His chest heaved against her warmed shoulders. His body enveloped hers. He could have easily overpowered her.
He pulled his forearms close to her sides, slipped his hands between the sheets and her breasts. Young, round, small by the feel. She had no fat on her to make them anything more.
He eased his cock forward, but did not force himself on her. She would be ready, willing, before he went any further.
After nuzzling her shoulder, he tasted her skin. He kissed the side of her neck, first kindly and then expectantly when he could restrain himself no longer. He knew she must be awake with his weight bearing down on her, with his breath rushing so insistently over her neck.
Relinquishing a breast, his right hand slithered between the sheets and her belly. He continued to the vulgar shock of hair, slid his fingers through and stroked her as delicately as he could under his body's rising insistence to take her.
He rocked his hips, teasing her lips with the head of his cock while his hand worked to rouse her further. Every single second tormented him beyond reason, but her body was surrendering. Each time he made a pass, she was more willing, more primed. He could stand no more of her torture. He did not want to play anymore.
When impulse conquered him, he begged into her shoulder, "Tell me you are ready."
"I'm ready," she whispered back, her voice weak, but her endorsement clear.
He smiled into her neck. Permission was all he expected, and she was suddenly all that he wanted.
Flexing his hips, he eased himself in. His breath hitched in his chest. Both of his hands held firmly to their respective missions, he closed his eyes to enjoy how real this always felt, how agreeable this new girl was. Most of all, he enjoyed her. He could barely move within her for fear of tumbling swiftly into madness.
"I'm ready, sir," she repeated, breathless.
Her voice was so soft, but no longer muffled by the pillow, so he opened his eyes to see the face of the woman he was fucking.
Tangles of hair draped across her face, her eyes half shut, Miss Granger smiled at him. The horror of the moment had to seep through the many layers of pleasure in his brain before he was finally able to scream.
Mercifully, his eyes opened yet again. His chin was resting on his chest. He was not screaming and he appeared fully clothed. The only remnant of his dream, or whatever circle of hell that had been, was the raging erection buried beneath three layers of clothing.
He hurried to cross his legs, but he had barely lifted his foot from the ground when he remembered his damned hip. It was aggravated again, painfully aggravated. He could not shift away; he could not stand. He was just going to have to hope that she did not notice.
"I'm ready, sir," Hermione's soft voice said again.
His head snapped up. There she was, book in hand, her eyes alert and thankfully focused on his, awaiting his reply. He could feel the shock, as obvious on his face as a mask. In an attempt to retain even a scrap of dignity, he hastily donned the reliable sneer.
"I heard you the first time," he growled, his voice still thick with sleep.
"What?" she asked innocently. "I only just said it."
"Well…" Snape attempted to clear his throat of what felt horribly like embarrassment as he found something to look at besides her. "Get on with it then."
"Sir, is something the matter?" Hermione asked, now sounding suitably alarmed.
"No," he answered firmly.
The blood had mostly returned to other, less conspicuous, areas of his body. However, he had no desire to look at her. When he did so, he could see her lying beneath him, wearing that agreeable smile. He had violated her, even if it had happened in a dream. He would not have allowed it to happen if he had known.
"You look queasy," she observed in a cautious voice.
He was sure that he did. He was also certain that he wanted to aim a Stunner in her direction, if only to get her out of his sight.
"I am in pain," he explained, though that was now the least of his worries.
"The spell is rather simple, really," she said, raising her voice a bit, as if she were in a hurry.
"Start with my shoulder," he all but snarled.
He was angry with her for invading his dream, for forcing him to feel this way. His anger seemed to allay his guilt quite nicely.
"The same side as your leg?" she asked quietly.
He replied with a brusque nod as he selected a nice, noncommittal corner of the coffee table at which to stare.
She stood and crossed in front of him to the arm of the sofa on his right. As she situated herself upon it, far too close for his liking, he considered pushing her off, but decided against it. He opted to wait for her to perform the spell, or whatever she was about to do, so that she could go away.
"Um…the book says that it's best to perform the magic directly to the skin." She sounded no more thrilled about the idea than he was.
"Or?" he prompted.
"If something goes wrong, you could lose your arm," she answered assertively. "Well, your clothes might meld with your skin, which could lead to amputation."
Why did everything always have to be against him? Amputation was not that bad, he thought grimly. He could always learn to use a wand with his left hand.
Purely because he was under duress, he started unbuttoning his robe. However reluctant he was to perform the task, he made it through the many buttons with haste. He was doing quite well until he made the mistake of shrugging as he tried to remove it. His right arm stiffened and he heard himself groan like the old man again.
Hermione leaned forward and gently pushed the fabric off his injured shoulder. It was a helpful gesture, though unnecessary, as her fingers brushed his collarbone. At the unanticipated touch of her hand, he gasped, though it sounded more like a reflexive pain response.
Abruptly pulling her hand away, she clamped both hands over her mouth and mumbled what Snape assumed was another apology, which he ignored.
"Perhaps you should try that on your head before you go testing it on me," Snape suggested as he gingerly pulled his arm from the sleeve.
She lowered her hands as she leaned back, a bit of her earlier confidence gone from her voice as she muttered, "I suppose you're right."
He heard the pages of the book rustle. With any luck, the task would keep her occupied for a moment.
Snape chanced a brief look in her direction to investigate the spell that she would soon aim at him and found that she had tilted her head toward the book, but she had her eyes fixed squarely upon him. As quickly as she shifted her eyes to the book, he relocated his coffee table corner. This was going to be more complicated than he had anticipated.
Once finished with the robe, he reconsidered the loss of his arm as he began to unbutton his shirt. If it were his left arm, perhaps he would take the gamble.
He heard her murmur something as he reached the last button. He had his shirt open to the waist. Now he had to expose himself to her. Oh, that did not sound right at all.
"Hmm…seems to have worked…" she marveled at his side.
Snape glanced over to see her poking herself in the temple with a finger. The right side of her face was in shadow, making it impossible to see if the bruise had actually healed.
"Tell me when you're ready, sir," she said politely, suddenly meeting his eyes.
He quickly shifted his eyes back to the coffee table as his stomach clenched. Why did she have to choose that particular phrasing?
He nodded and slid his shirt from his right shoulder. There was no need to reveal more than he absolutely had to.
Following a heartfelt gasp, Hermione exclaimed, "That's ghastly! What did he do to you?"
"Heal it," Snape ground out, his jaw clenched as he ignored her remarks once more.
"Right," she said quickly, fumbling for a moment with the book and her wand.
At last, the tip of her wand grazed his shoulder ever so faintly as she said, "Rennoxa."
An icy cold spread through his shoulder that sent a hearty chill through the rest of his body. What he would not have done for that five minutes ago…
"It might take a moment, as deep as that looks," Hermione informed him.
Snape acknowledged her with a nod. The corner of the coffee table still required his undivided attention.
His shoulder soon began to thaw, but as it did so, it filled just as rapidly with an itch--a terrible, burning itch. He tried to scratch at it, but that only seem to intensify the itching.
"It might itch a little," Hermione offered, her voice hesitant.
"Thank you for notifying me of that beforehand," Snape snapped as he continued to claw at his shoulder.
At the very least, his arm did not hurt anymore. He felt nothing but that itching, which very well may have distracted him from the other.
"Is it going away yet?" she asked.
"Perhaps," he muttered.
The itch was beginning to recede, ever so slowly. He stopped scratching long enough to pull his shirt back on. He buttoned it in a hurried fashion, stupidly thinking, if for only a second, that they were finished.
"Now, all that's left is your leg," she reminded him.
He paused on the last button. His leg. How could he have forgotten his leg?
"I will tend to it myself," he mumbled as he finished with his shirt.
"But…"
"I said I will tend to it myself."
He stood yet again and nearly whimpered at the sharp return of the pain.
"Would you please stay put?" she asked wearily as she stood with him. "You won't do anyone any good…"
"I said…" he began to say before he lost control of the entire situation.
"Sir, you will let me do this," she demanded in a domineering tone that he had never heard from the girl.
In utter amazement, he brought his eyes up from the floor to see the dreadful determination on her face. If the light had been a bit stronger, he would have been able to tell if those were truly tears in her eyes.
"My life depends on you, sir," she went on, sounding calmer now, if only by force. "You're modesty really is none of my concern at the moment. So, if you don't mind, drop your damn trousers."
She advanced on Snape so quickly that he had no time to hobble away. However, he did have time to grab her hands before they reached his waistband.
Once he had her by the wrists, she did not try to free herself. Instead, she seemed defeated. While she stood in his shadow, her expression unreadable, he stood in utter shock at her audacity.
Too soon, all he could see was the top of her head. Her eyes appeared to have found their own corner of the coffee table.
"What exactly do you think you are doing?" he questioned.
She did not reply. In fact, he was not sure she was listening.
"There is a limit to how much insolence I am willing to tolerate and you have nearly reached it," Snape warned as he tightened his grip on her wrists. "If you wish to see that limit, then by all means, keep pushing."
After a shaky breath, Hermione asked in an angry whisper, "Can Dumbledore teach me?"
"Teach you what?" Snape inquired harshly.
"To ride a bicycle," she sneered as she looked up, her practiced hatred on full display this time. "Can he teach me Variable Memory?"
"Yes," Snape answered quickly.
"Then I want him to do it," she declared. "I don't want whatever it is that you have against me to…to cause me to fail."
In all honesty, it had never occurred to Snape to give her a choice of teachers. He was the most experienced with Variable Memory, and assumed that he would undertake her preparation. However, none of these thoughts mattered much as he automatically began to defend himself.
"I will not 'cause you to fail'," he contradicted, his resentment more evident in his tone than he intended.
"You're bad enough under ordinary circumstances," she replied, incensed. "Do you think I want you responsible for my life when you won't even accept my help with a stupid bruise? I'm not trying to humiliate you. I'm trying to help you. Why do you have to make it so damn difficult?"
"I am not…" Snape managed to say before she interrupted.
"You are!" she accused. "You act like you're waiting for me to laugh at you. There's nothing to laugh at, Professor. There's nothing funny about any of this."
At her final word, she tugged at her wrists and Snape willingly released her. She was entirely out of line. She was disrespecting every bit of help that he had given her. What pissed him off the most was that everything she had just said was true.
"How dare you…" Snape began, but the girl refused to allow him to finish a thought.
"I'm not your student!" she exclaimed with wide-eyed vigor. "You don't scare me anymore!"
"You should be afraid," he cautioned as his temper continued to rise.
"Of what?" she scoffed. "You aren't evil, and you can't fail me anymore, so what's left? Are you going to toss me out? Are you going to hurt me? Maybe, but what good would it do to fear you? Boost your ego a bit, I'd imagine."
Of the many things that Snape wanted to do to her in that moment, he could not settle on just one. She had jumped subjects three times. She was obviously unstable. He was furious with the girl. His fury was enough to override his pain response so that, when he started toward her, he barely winced.
"You would do well to fear me," he warned as he advanced.
The smug confidence disappeared from her face as she backpedaled. She seemed unprepared for his reaction, as well as how to deal with it, as she did not even attempt to sidestep him.
"A healthy bit of respect would not hurt either," Snape continued in his most ominous of tones.
Snape took one more step, backing her into the wall of bookcases. Slamming his hands against the books on either side of her head, he leaned down to make sure that she heard his message loud and clear. His face was no more than an inch from hers. She was flat against the bookcase as she stared up, looking less frightened than humbled.
"I take orders from Albus Dumbledore and the Dark Lord," Snape explained. "That means that there are already two too many people ordering me about. Do not think, for one instant, that you are going to make it three."
Her voice fraught, Hermione said, "That's not what I…"
"What you meant means nothing to me," he growled, cutting her short. "You are not my equal. You never will be. Therefore, I expect deference. Is that understood?"
She nodded as she turned her head, clearly trying to hide her face in the shadows. Snape placed a rigid fist against her chin and forced her to face him. She reinstated the look of hatred.
"Is that understood?" he repeated.
"Yes, sir," she hissed as she glared at him. "Far be it from me to assume otherwise…Rennoxa."
"What?" he managed to ask before the cold spread through his hip and down his leg.
As he expected earlier, she attempted to step out of his reach, but he forcibly pinned her against the shelves with his chest. Outraged that she would disregard every word he had just said, he chose to hold her captive.
She was again looking away, in either shame or disgust. Again, he used a clenched fist to force her to see how angry she had made him.
"Have you no regard for anyone besides yourself?" he snarled.
"Just because you want to suffer doesn't mean we all have to!" she yelled.
Before he could admonish her further, the itching set in. It was too much to bear while holding her against the wall, for no purpose other than to scare her, so he let her go in order to appease the unappeasable itch.
As soon as he stepped back, Hermione stumbled a few paces away, into the shadows that occupied the unfurnished corner of the room. Meanwhile, Snape rubbed at his hip with all the fury that he sought to unleash on her.
"I'll be in your study," she said before she stepped back into view. She was still displaying the veil of hatred. "You can find me whenever you want."
"For what purpose?" he asked as he scratched.
"To begin the lessons," she answered as she started toward the kitchen door. "I have to be ready by tomorrow, or tonight, whenever. You do remember that, don't you?"
The girl wanted to kill him, or she wanted him to kill her. Either way, she was out of her mind!
"Lessons?" he sneered. "I thought you wanted your dear old, resurrected Headmaster to teach you?"
She hesitated in the doorway, but did not reply. Instead, she stepped over the threshold and disappeared into the kitchen.
Snape let out a low rumble, which grew into an angered growl before he curbed it. Although the itch was abating, his anger had quite the journey to take before it would be anywhere near ready to recede.
Snape took a step toward the sofa and was downright amazed that his hip no longer hurt. Furthermore, he felt no soreness in his entire right side. He thought that he should have her do whatever it was she did on his entire body.
No, she would not escape that easily. She had disrespected him. He had every right to be angry with her, to punish her. He could do plenty to her, especially in their predicament. She had no idea…
Snape curbed his thoughts quickly when he lost control of the situation yet again. His mind flashed the momentary image of her smiling face with her hair splayed out over the pillow. He shook his head, quite unappreciative that his body and his mind were submitting to such ready stimuli. She was a girl--a dim-witted, unappreciative and defiant one.
After wading through two Rogue Memories, the second of which the most disturbing, his mind had become disordered. He closed his eyes and let the anger fade so that he could view the situation judiciously.
The girl's actions were irrelevant. He was putting far too much emphasis on them and not nearly enough on the situation at hand.
She would stand before the Dark Lord in a matter of hours. Snape needed to impart at least a full year's worth of study to her in the interim. Without the knowledge, the girl faced not physical death, but something far worse.
With a spasm of regret, Snape realized that the entire situation had begun with Hermione's offer of help, her threatened assistance. Either way, he had overacted. In a matter of days, her entire world had collapsed. She was in no condition to take responsibility for her actions.
She had not purposefully worked her way into his mind either. He was lashing out at her still over something that she had no control over.
She deserved little, if any, of his aggravation. She had not coerced him into the war. There were many to blame, but she was not one of them. By process of elimination, he had just done a very stupid thing--a very callous and selfish thing.
Resentment carried Hermione all the way through the kitchen and into the study. She could still feel the linear ache across her shoulders where Snape had forced her into the wall and the shelves housed there.
Using shuffling steps, she located the chair and its cool leather in the center of the room. It received her without protest, which she found odd. Since it was his chair, she almost expected it to rebuke her somehow. Toss her across the room, perhaps.
She should have gone to bed when he told her to. She should have kept her mouth shut. Then again, no amount of should-haves was about to solve the problem she had just created for herself.
Snape had been almost friendly before it came time to start the healing. As soon as she found the proper section of the book, he became guarded and testy. She explained it away as she would a thorn in the paw. Maybe the pain was provoking him. Either way, she had to remain focused if she intended to help him.
Then, after proving that she could heal him, he had to be a pig-headed jerk and opt to suffer. She needed him to be in his less surly state for her own good. Therefore, she let her focus slip. She let impulse drive her next actions and tried to help him by force.
That was a regrettably rash decision. Her mild force only seemed to enrage him, and a horribly calm rage it was too. Contained and imposing while he gnashed his teeth and bruised her wrists. At least she could heal those bruises once they had matured a little.
By the time that she realized she should shut her mouth, he was already backing her toward the wall. She did not try to run because she had formed the silly notion that close proximity might give her the opportunity to heal his leg, whether he liked it or not.
She received the close proximity, as well as a talking to that she neither wanted nor desired. She accomplished her mission to heal him, and received a swift thump against the wall for her effort. Thinking that she should have known better was not helping her now, because she had realized something much more disturbing.
Snape was not concerned with her or any aspect of her troubles. He only cared about himself and that her trouble was now his. It was quite clear to her that he only wanted to help her so that Voldemort would not discover anything she knew about Dumbledore, or about Snape. He was doing nothing more than protecting himself.
He was the same egotistical, opportunistic bastard that she remembered, and now she knew that he could feel pain. The trouble was that, in taking away his pain, she had almost guaranteed herself a fate worse than death.
As the desolation promised to overwhelm her, as she struggled to remain calm, she heard the sound of footsteps--his deliberate, merciless footsteps.
The lamp on the side table stunned her eyes for an instant when it suddenly flickered on, reforming the island of light within the darkness. When her eyes focused, she saw Snape, his shoulders stooped and his lips worryingly taut.
He stepped up in front of her, where he towered, looking wholly implausible without his heavy, black robe. His hands clasped behind his back, he seemed about to instruct her on the merits of speaking only when spoken to.
"Miss Granger," he said in a calm, controlled voice. "I should apologize."
Upon hearing those words, she was quite positive that she had nothing to worry about anymore. Clearly, she had already lost her mind.