The Fire and the Rose Part 38
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MetroVampire & Rhosymedre
Part 38 - Please Fasten Your Seatbelts As We May Experience Some Turbulence
Mandrake juice could never be described as pleasant tasting; perhaps the taste was associated with its function - Snape had never found a palatable variant on polyjuice either. Not one that actually worked.
The bitter taste stung its way down his throat, coating his tongue as he suppressed a retch. Memories flittered and escaped from reach in the few moments that it took for the liquid to work; re-learning transfiguration, leg-waxing, Cosmopolitan magazine, months of acting and months developing the most important relationship of his life. And the touch of her - of Hermione, no matter that she had been wearing his skin.
Had been; and was no longer. The odd wrenching, stretching, sensation that he could barely recall from late September was over. He could see the world once again from his usual elevation and, in front of him, stood Hermione. She looked somewhat bewildered, her eyes unfocussed for a moment. Then she looked up at him and he saw her - really saw her - behind her eyes, and saw Hermione once again, regardless of the skin she wore.
"Umm ..." she seemed unsure of what to say; he had absolutely no idea what to say. What was the correct protocol for this? He fell back on the tedious, stating the obvious, hoping it would at least begin to bring them out of this confusion.
"It seems to have worked."
Hermione quirked an eyebrow at him, suddenly looking slightly amused. If he could still blush, he thought perhaps he would have blushed now. It had been an appallingly obvious comment to make.
"Forgive me," he said, drawling with pleasure at the realisation that he could drawl once more, with all the intonation and insinuation that had been his to call upon before. "You must, however, allow me some moment of inanity, surely. This is not quite an everyday occurrence, Hermione."
He had, for a fraction of a second, debated calling her 'Miss Granger' but, in the end, could not bring himself to shut down the connection between them so peremptorily. Hermione herself took a deep breath, almost of relief, at the mention of her name; he thought perhaps she had been expecting the formality, the immediate dissolution of all that had happened in the previous six months.
"No," she replied eventually. "You're forgiven, Severus. This time." He fought the smile that twitched at the corners of his mouth, then gave in to it. It had been too long since he had smiled - with this mouth - and he was reasonably certain that there was no-one else he would be prepared to smile for. Freedom of expression, one extent or another, had been one of the unexpected delights of being Hermione. If - perhaps - if he could find some way to hold on to that, even with just the one person ... probably a foolish dream, and far too risky.
Hermione smiled back at him. His own smile turned wry as practicalities fought their way to the surface at last.
"We should go and see the Headmaster," he said; she nodded in agreement and he turned on his heel to lead the way to the door. He smiled again, inwardly this time, at the simple pleasure of feeling his robes swirl around him at the abrupt turn. Halfway to the door he stopped suddenly, remembering, and gestured to Hermione to precede him. "My apologies, Hermione," he said, "I have mislaid my manners."
"It'll take a while to remember which set of manners to use, and when," replied Hermione. "You're lucky I didn't walk into you - I've grown used to leading the way in front of students."
The walk through the corridors was largely uneventful; Snape tried not to look too obviously around him as they went, re-learning the castle from his higher vantage and perspective. Students scattered from his path again, casting sympathetic glances at the Head Girl beside him. An hour ago, they had been casting those glances at him. He wondered what Hermione was thinking, being on the receiving end of the same glances once more. They arrived at the Headmasters's office before he had a moment, away from students, to ask her.
Dumbledore was in and, apparently, expecting them. "Hermione, Severus. How good to see you both again - and the right way round! Excellent, excellent. I should congratulate you both; the last few months cannot have been easy for either of you, and you are to be commended on your acting abilities - and your patience. Lemon drop?"
Snape shook his head and noticed Hermione do the same next to him.
"Ah well. Very good. Do you need any assistance from me? No?" Dumbledore seemed almost disappointed as they shook their heads again. "Well then, children, I think perhaps all that remains is for you to pick up your lives again - but please," and his voice grew softer for a moment, "do not forget, and do not ignore the possibilities. Not everything is impossible - although caution is always wise." He nodded to them. "Goodnight."
Snape blinked at the dismissal; neither he nor Hermione had managed to say a word in the face of the Headmaster's benediction, yet they found themselves ushered down the spiralling staircase again within moments.
At the foot of the stairs they stood for a moment, shielded from the view of any passers-by, and looked at each other blankly.
Finally, Hermione dropped her gaze to the floor, then looked up again. "I suppose I should go and re-acquaint myself with my room and my cat. Is there ... is there anything you need from there?" she asked.
Snape shook his head. "I've kept everything in the lab; I don't think there's anything up there that isn't yours. If you find anything, you can bring it with you tomorrow evening when you - when you come to work on your credit project." He almost winced at the slight break in his words, hoping he didn't sound as desperate for her company as he was trying not to feel.
Hermione blinked, her eyes oddly bright for a moment, then nodded and, suddenly, reached up to tuck her hand behind his neck. Before he had a chance to react, she had raised up to meet his mouth with her own; a rush of sensation tore through him, the taste and touch her immediately firing a thousand-fold through him.
This was right - the right taste, the right touch, and the right person. He fought not to deepen the kiss - the corridor outside the Headmaster's office was hardly appropriate - but could not help but respond. His hand curled into her hair, silky under his fingers. Some rebellious part of his mind noted that the conditioner he had come up with really did work well. He drew her closer to him, revelling in the sensation as she pressed again him. Her mouth was cool and infinitely sweet under his own; pleasure in everything, even the simplicity of being taller, leaning over her - leaning into the kiss.
Moments later they parted, breathing a little heavily. Snape forced himself to say goodbye, but found he could only manage another two words.
"Until tomorrow."
Hermione nodded, her eyes bright again, and turned to walk briskly along the corridor. Snape watched her go, suddenly very tired, and almost missed the point at which she broke into a run. Six months ago, he would have thought she was anxious to get away from him, to return to Gryffindor Tower and the sanctuary of Potter and Weasley. Now ... now he was sure that she was running to the sanctuary of her room, alone, before anyone saw her cry.
He should do the same. He would do the same, if it would not raise questions that he was unprepared to answer. Even Hermione could get away with such a dash through the corridors - no matter that she was Head Girl, it wouldn't be seen as unusual. Professor Snape, however, could not indulge in such things, so he walked slowly back, scowling at any students fool enough to encounter him, and deducting points peremptorily - even from a Slytherin student stupid enough to stop him in the corridor and ask some trivial question.
He reached his rooms; the door swung open to let him through at his password. He stalked across the room and collapsed into a chair, staring at the wall in front of him. The titles of books marched across the shelves in serried ranks and he abruptly remembered Hermione staring at them in ill-concealed wonder and glee when she first saw the rooms.
He raised his head and looked around; it was his domain and yet ... and yet it was indelibly stamped now with Hermione. Her touch on the scrolls on the desk - her notes, no doubt, from the project. He would need to make sure she had access to them. The cold cup of coffee on the floor beside the chair; hers, from breakfast, no doubt. The books stacked beside the cup - he should remember to offer them to her, for her to continue reading them.
His room - her room - their room. It would take time to adjust, to remember ... and suddenly he did remember, pulling up the sleeve of his left arm. The mark was barely visible still but he felt it now, in memory, recalling what he didn't want to recall. Realising, emphatically, who and what he was. What he had always been, even through the short months inhabiting Hermione's body.
He slumped back into the chair.
Finally, lost in circular thoughts and almost fiercely tired and distracted, he headed for bed. It was late - or possibly even early, since he was sure it was long past midnight - and he should try to sleep. He wondered, for a moment, whether he could sleep; habit, though, persisted in the mind and not the body - he wanted to go to bed, as he had done every night since September. If he could take nothing else away from this, perhaps he could finally regulate his sleep.
He turned back the sheets and started, then laughed. And laughed, a low rusty sound that mingled with dry sobs. Tucked carefully under the sheets was a pair of boxer shorts; a forceful reminder that Hermione had slept in this bed only last night. He stopped the tears and the laughter, calming down but allowing wry amusement to linger. Obviously, some intimacies were just a little too much to tolerate.
He was tired. So damn tired. Memory and recollection jumbled as he fought to retain memories in the face of needing to be himself once more - and yet, not himself. Somewhere in the time since September he had found, perhaps, something of the man he might have been. It was a measure of the irony that governed the universe that he had found it in the life and body of an eighteen year old girl. Time enough to think about it tomorrow, to find once again some equilibrium in the balancing act of his life.
He swept up the boxers in one hand and almost tossed them to one side then, on an impulse he couldn't explain, laid them back on the bed. He stripped himself of his clothes; the black suit and robes, the shirt and underwear, and then stepped into the boxers.
Lying on the bed he stared at the ceiling, the light of the candle by the bed playing across the rough plasterwork that concealed the stone of the school. It felt ... odd, to be lying in this bed, alone, in this body. The boxer shorts felt particularly odd, the material slightly rough. Almost like a caress.
Images follow words, and actions may follow both. Snape reached down to take off the shorts, to revert to the comfort of nudity, but stopped as he touched the waistband. He couldn't do it. Hermione had done this; had worn shorts in his bed.
A circle of illogic swirled until he was almost dizzy then, finally, he simply undid the single button and left it at that. The art of compromise. Memory, remembrance, and comfort.
Unexpectedly, he fell asleep just as he was wondering how long he would lie awake.
Snape woke to the early morning light of dawn, teasing the room with a pale rose sunlight tinting and reflecting from the snow that lingered on the mountains that fringed the horizon.
Some things never changed; the need to head for the bathroom and relieve an uncomfortable pressure was one of them. But even this had changed - memories overlaid the brute practicality and he found himself remembering how this had felt when it had been Hermione he had been touching, stroking. The pressure on the groove on the underside - the sharp, almost overwhelming sensation of a fingernail run across the opening. A ring of pressure as his fingers stroked ... he came hard, Hermione's name spilling into the cold dawn air.
