Chapter Twelve: Never Ignore a Thoughtful Suitcase
"What?" asked Hermione.
McGonagall rolled her eyes. "Miss Granger, sometimes you are impossibly dense!"
"I'm sure I don't have a clue what you mean," Hermione murmured. Innocently. Too innocently.
"I'm sure you don't," her Head of House said severely.
"Professor, I am the picture of ignorance, I assure you."
"Of course."
"My conception of your meaning is greatly limited. I am completely in the dark!"
"Miss Granger, this is highly unlike you. I'm sure you know exactly what I'm talking about! Listen to yourself. 'My conception of your meaning', indeed. My dear girl, you can't tell me you've been friends with Ron as long as you have without noticing the poor boy hanging on your every movement! Mr Weasely is besotted. At the very least, it is quite obvious to myself and everyone else in your Transfigurations class!" This very un- McGonagall-like outburst was followed by an impassioned clink of coffee cup in saucer. Dear Professor McGonagall, the girl thought amusedly; whenever her stern façade slipped, it was to reveal a fiercely protective and maternal side like that of any mother cat. It was a wonder she didn't have children, really. The way she fussed over her young 'cubs' on those rare occasions showed just how very fond she was of all of them.
Hermione waited a few seconds before she replaced her coffee cup on the table and said, with the straightest face she could manage, "There is your problem, then, Professor McGonagall. I must have been paying far too much attention to Transfigurations to notice the behaviour of my class mates. I apologise for my oversight. Silly of me."
She made a dignified exit before an open-mouthed McGonagall, doubling over with laughter as soon as she was safely outside.
Ron? Oh, dear. Of course she'd noticed! He went red every time he looked at her. But still, he was only a very dear friend. She could never think of him that way anymore than she could, say, Neville.
Regaining her breath, she thought ruefully that it was her fault she was such a star pupil. Because of that, McGonagall doted on her like a favourite niece, or even, heavens forbid, a well-loved granddaughter. And it was a well-documented fact that older women with overdeveloped maternal instincts liked to show young women that they cared about them by arranging and re-arranging their love lives. McGonagall was obviously trying to play matchmaker. Like that dreadful woman in Sense and Sensibility, what was her name again? The one who said "Every suitor needs a little bit of help", then nearly ruined both Marianne's and Elinor's love lives by putting in her two pounds worth!
If it weren't so flaming ludicrous (and for the fact of a virtuous and thorough grounding in the arts of dental care) she would have ground down her teeth to the gums at the thought of her Head of House deciding to play a well-meaning, if slightly unhelpful, Cupid.
Hermione started off towards her room to find some parchment and a quill to owl Harry, since he would have found it hilarious and she could trust him not to breathe a word of it to Ron, when she remembered both that he was on holidays with the Weaselys, so Ron would probably read the note the same time that Harry would, and the one very important little fact that had just slipped her mind. She hadn't told either Harry or Ron about the problem with her parents. They didn't know she was at Hogwarts. And since she hadn't told them that because she didn't want them to pity her (teenage boys being teenage boys, any sympathy would surely degenerate into poorly hidden pity for their 'little Mione' – especially on Ron's part, the loving, silly clod!), she couldn't tell them anything that happened at Hogwarts now without explaining that, so she couldn't owl Harry about this. Damn.
It made her feel rather deflated. So instead, Hermione headed off towards the kitchens in search of comfort food, and the dungeons for the copy of the works of Swiss mediwizard Abbé Kuenzle that Snape had lent her the day after he'd dosed her with one of the man's favourite herbs. Apparently, Kuenzle had worked as much among Muggles, sharing his knowledge of plant lore, as he had among wizards, advancing the quality of medimagic. It was a fascinating topic.
She managed about twenty minutes of blissful study before her solitude was interrupted.
Hermione put down her notebook and sighed. Tenderly she marked her place in the old leather bound volume with reverence, and tucked it away behind her. Out of sight, out of mind.
She fixed a disapproving glare upon her face. "Okay, Luggage," said the Mistress, "Just what have you been up to?"
On penitent feet, the trunk shuffled into the room. "Well?" Hermione demanded. She crossed her arms, then thought better of it. It made her feel like a kid having a tantrum.
"I'm waiting."
The suitcase looked at her sadly. It always amazed her how something that was essentially just a wooden box surrounded by metal strips could seem to have so much personality. "Have you been in trouble again?"
Sorrowfully, its lid wagged. Once.
"What happened? Will you tell me or will I have to drag it out of you?"
Outside the room, Snape stopped. This sounded like a fascinating conversation! Creeping forward, he leant against the wall next to the partially open door.
"C'mon. You didn't chase McGonagall again, since I only left her a little while ago, so what did you do? You didn't try to eat Gollum, did you?"
Scratch, scratch. The luggage indicated a negative by scratching its toenails against the floor.
"Good. I couldn't bear having to go through that again with Filch because of you. Not that he'd probably have anything to do with me if you did it, you know. Not that I'd blame you. I hate that cat. So does McGonagall! You know what she told me? That blasted cat's randy as hell. He thinks, apparently, that she makes a very attractive feline. Between you and that creature, she's afraid to use her animagi form at Hogwarts anymore!
"Alright, I know it's funny, you know it's funny, but it really is serious for Professor McGonagall. The poor woman." Hermione sighed. "Although, maybe it would be good for her to worry about her own 'love' life for a bit. She's getting clucky."
The chest did a little dance of interest. Hermione nodded. "Yes, she wants to marry me off. Or not really marry me off, just set me up with someone. You don't know him. He's on holidays. His name's Ron. He doesn't like cats. I don't know how he feels about suitcases. I mean, he's got one, obviously, but I seriously doubt he's ever spent much time talking to it. It's just a box. No teeth. No feet."
The Luggage hastened to assure her that it wouldn't spend any time talking to something like that, either. Just a box! No personality. No character. No originality! It found the thought quite shocking. It wouldn't have minded meeting a lady Luggage, were the truth to be known in the depths of its sapient pearwood interior, but it had had many years in this world beyond its homeland to learn, sadly, that it was one of a kind.
So it merely rubbed its lid against the Mistress' legs to show its affection for her. If this Professor McGonagall was so certain that its Mistress belonged with this Ron character, when she so obviously didn't like the thought, she would have to go through it, first. Absently, the Luggage jiggled its lock and formulated thoughts of murder.
"Thanks, Luggage. You're a good friend, you know that?"
Of course it did!
"But it makes nice symmetry, I suppose. McGonagall told me Ron's going to be Head Boy, so I guess I can see where she's co-"
A muffled snort made her stop. The luggage did not snort. She had not snorted. There was no cat in her room (a quick check under the bed ascertained Crookshanks was indeed absent).
Hermione looked thoughtfully towards the doorway. Something she saw made her smile.
"You can come in now, Professor Snape. I can see the edge of your cloak."
"Miss Granger." He stalked in, and without asking permission, seated himself in the armchair beside the desk. Opposite where she sat, cross- legged, on the bed.
"Do you always eavesdrop on other people's conversations?"
"It was hardly a conversation, Miss Granger, just a fascinating piece of monologue. And I wasn't exactly 'eavesdropping'." He sneered at the word.
"No, of course not," Hermione said dryly. "You were just walking by and just happened to hear, isn't that right?"
"I object to what you are implying!"
"Well, that's too bad. Guess I might just have to sic Luggage onto you then. What do you think, Luggage?"
It sat thoughtfully. One foot twitched.
"It's not too enthusiastic," Snape observed.
Hermione rolled her eyes. "It probably just doesn't want to leave Lisa an orphan."
"Her name is Mona. An elegant, old name. 'Lisa' is far too common! I have several students named Lisa."
"Oh, dear. We wouldn't want anyone to think you're playing favourites now by naming her after anyone, wouldn't we? Why didn't you just name her Dragon and be done with it? Or Slythie? Or Little Serpent? Or Neville Longbottom II?"
"WHAT??" Snape's startled yelp made the Luggage take a protective step in front of its Mistress. Helplessly, Hermione wiped her eyes.
"Did you say something, Professor?"
"I was just going to say that – Miss Granger, do you always sleep with my textbooks under your pillow?"
"What?" She spun around and made a grab for the book, but Snape moved much faster, and extracted the Kuenzle work from its hiding place before she could.
He held it up in the air. "Yes, the collected works of Abbé Kuenzle, here we are. Property of S. Snape. Says right here on the inside cover." He shut it with a silent flourish. "Well, well, well, Miss Granger. What has the good Abbé Kuenzle been doing under your pillow, I wonder?"
"Catching up on some necessary sleep, I guess. Must be hard work being a famous mediwizard. The light was probably too strong in here for him so he must have crawled under the pillow for some peace." Hermione fixed him with an innocent stare. "That's what I think, Professor."
Snape stared at her for one, long, instant and wondered if he'd heard correctly. Slowly he blinked. His shoulders started to shake and then he began to laugh.
The eyes he brought up to face Hermione's face about ten seconds later were full of mirth. "Since when was sarcasm contagious, Miss Granger?"
"I don't know, Professor. Perhaps we should ask the good Abbé Kuenzle."
"Are you suggesting sarcasm is an infectious disease?"
"You can't deny I've come down with a bad case these holidays, Professor. There must be something in the air here."
"Yes, a nice little germ, socially transmitted and totally untreatable."
Not bad, he thought. His conversational tendencies seemed to be rubbing off on her. It made her quite a pleasant companion, actually. There was nothing he couldn't stand more than someone deliberately trying to be nice and make a good impression. Sharp wit was far better. Or even a little bit of rudeness, since it was clear that the person using it wasn't intimidated by him. (He could have made conversation much less daunting for his interlocutors by making an effort to be nice himself, but Severus had never felt the need to ever apply that term to his person. Nice was for Hufflepuffs, anyway.)
"If it's totally untreatable, what am I going to do? Is my condition going to get worse?"
"Definitely," he said gravely. "It has all the characteristics of a chronic case. I can only suggest that you learn to live with it."
"Will I infect anyone else?"
The sneer returned. "Considering the people in your House, I highly doubt it. The Head Boy probably won't even recognise the symptoms – speaking of Head Boy, are you sure McGonagall was serious? I have a hard time imagining your friend Mr Weasely as Head of anything, unless it's the 'We Hate Potions' club."
"That'd be Neville, wouldn't it?" (No, Ron would be the Head of the 'We Hate Severus Snape' club. Not that she was going to say it.)
Maybe it showed on her face, though, for Snape replied, smiling nastily, "I must concede the point. Mr Weasely would much rather lead a club against me, I presume."
Hermione was surprised by his candour. She looked startled. Snape just shrugged, a slight rustle of flowing black fabric. "I learnt long ago not to care what my students think of me, Miss Granger. As long as they turn up to class, let me take quite a few points off most of them, earn themselves detentions and try not to blow the room up, I am content. Then again, if they didn't turn up I can't say I would be displeased, either – I could just take off points and give out detentions without having to suffer the insufferable gits."
"Oh, you're just whinging," Hermione said. "You know you love teaching. You'd gladly spend hours every day patiently helping all your students with a kind word and a smile for every one."
Snape glared at her in absolute disgust.
"You really like even Neville and Ron deep down, don't you?" She sighed. "Ah, would that I had a vocation as strong as yours. Seeing the love you have of teaching, the joy you get from the eager faces of all the-"
"-terrified little dunderheads-"
"-sweet students clamouring eagerly to-"
"-run screaming from the room-"
"-learn every bit of knowledge that you can give them-"
"-in detention-"
"-when they can – you're really not helping, are you? I'm trying but you're not making this easy."
"Yes, you're trying, alright."
"And you're just plain difficult."
"I commend your powers of observation, Hermione."
"Yes, Severus, I'm really quite clever when I try."
He stiffened and the easy bantering mood between them evaporated. "Miss Granger, I, it is really quite inappropriate, that is to say-"
"You mean we can bicker like anything but 'Severus' is inappropriate? Sorry, then, Professor Snape. It wasn't intended."
Hermione leant across and snatched the textbook from his unresponsive hands. She opened it across her lap and grabbed up her notebook and quill.
"Feel free to leave whenever you like, Professor."
She scratched the quill viciously across her page. It left a furrow, but the ink had long dried. Hermione swore and reached for the inkwell.
Her hand closed upon Snape's. She stared coldly at him. "I believe the door is open. May I have my ink now, please?"
"No." He peeled her fingers from the small container and placed it on the table, out of her immediate reach.
"Why not? Isn't the sight of a student doing work a pleasant one?"
"Not when I wish to talk to her, no. Hermione."
"That will be Miss Granger, Professor."
Snape held her gaze without moving. "I think you understand that this behaviour is far beyond the boundaries of a normal teacher-student relationship. I blame myself for not enforcing the rules more stringently. But I felt that as you had recently suffered a bereavement-"
"Yes, that's right, it's all my fault, isn't it?"
"-you would benefit more from someone to talk with rather than a distant professor. And I confess I have found it quite relaxing at times, too. But, Miss Granger, I am aware that this cannot go on anymore. School resumes next week. I will speak to Professor McGonagall about your relocation to the Head Girl's room. No doubt she will be pleased by the thought of you settling in early, and I presume she will arrange something if you still do not wish to tell your friends about the nature of your holidays." Something like a flicker of regret passed across his face. More kindly, he said "I apologise, Miss Granger, but you are aware of the nature of the situation. No doubt you felt the conversation warranted your use of my first name – I realise I let it stray far beyond the confines of normal, appropriate behaviour – but such 'bickering' must cease, even though you are to be Head Girl and would therefore normally enjoy a closer, ah, relationship with your teachers than would be the norm for other students, and-"
"You're babbling, Professor. Severus."
Once again, she saw him flinch. Slowly, Hermione got to her feet and stood in front of him. Out of the corner of her eyes she noticed the Luggage scurrying through the doorway.
"Why are you babbling?" Calm, Hermione, keep calm. She hid her shaking hands behind her back and tried to keep her voice steady.
Snape looked desperately towards the doorway. But the luggage, bless its little wooden heart, had pushed the door firmly shut when it had left. Most likely it was sitting outside the door until Hermione told it otherwise.
"Did you train that thing?"
She shook her head, smiled slightly. "No, it takes it upon itself to anticipate my wishes."
"You wished for it to chase your Head of House?"
"Don't try to change the subject." Hermione fixed him with a level gaze, trying to fathom his hooded expression. "Why were you so lost for words?"
"I believe I came up with quite a few words under the circumstances, you can hardly deem that to be lost for words!"
She smiled a bit more. "Under what circumstances would those be, Severus?"
"Please, let's end this conversation now, Hermione. You don't want to carry this any further."
"You're just a teensy bit desperate there, aren't you? Why?"
Gently, Severus brushed an errant curl away from her face. "Please, Hermione," he said softly.
"Why?" she repeated in a voice equally as soft.
"Let's just say that I am as guilty of inappropriate behaviour as you, only I would be far more were this conversation to continue. Despite the sad circumstances that led to your coming here these holidays, I feel it would not be inaccurate to say that they have not been all bad. Have they?"
"No."
"But school itself is – has to be – much different." He let his hand drop. A mischievous look started to creep onto his sombre face. "If it's any consolation, you bicker like an excellent fishwife."
"So do you. Skinned any good trout lately?"
"Miss Granger!"
"I'm sorry, too. Severus. I've always thought of you as a terrible git, so I have to be just as bad myself now, since I've really enjoyed your company these past weeks."
He stayed silent.
"Just because you're horrible, and ugly, and nasty, and cruel to my entire House doesn't mean we can't still be friends."
"So says the fishwife who's just confessed she believes herself to be equally as bad as my lowly self."
Hermione snorted. A reluctant grin appeared. "Point, conceded."
"Indeed."
"But I have come to consider you a friend. And, Severus, I don't have many friends, so forgive me if I seem a little reluctant to let one go just because school is resuming? I promise, I will do my best to detest you on all occasions."
Quietly, he laughed, and his hand crept up to rest on her shoulder. "Has anyone ever told you that you're considerably unusual?"
"Mum and Dad."
His smile vanished. "I didn't mean that."
"I know. I understand."
"Well…" He nodded thoughtfully. His professorial demeanour returned. "All the proprieties must still be observed on all occasions, however, and all proper respect must always be shown. By both yourself, and that tame suitcase of yours."
"Snape, I simply said I didn't want to lose your friendship, I wasn't proposing marriage!"
Snape started violently. He choked and tried to turn it into a cough. Flinch number three, she observed with amusement.
"Of course." He inclined his head stiffly. "Anyone who thinks that I would willingly shackle myself to such an argumentative, screeching fishwife needs a visit to St. Mungo's."
"Likewise. In reverse." Hermione turned away and rapped on the door. "Alright, Luggage, I'm going to open the door now. Stand clear."
But the corridor, when revealed, was empty. The Luggage was long gone.
Disclaimer/Author's Note: Luggage & the Potterverse don't belong to me, as usual! The reference to Sense and Sensibility comes about since I've just finished watching it for the umpteenth time. Alan Rickman is as incredible as ever. (After that I went through my other Rickman videos, Truly Madly Deeply, The Barchester Chronicles, and Die Hard. All wonderful – but I enjoyed Barchester (1982) much more now, after the HP movie, since his character in that, one Obadiah Slope, is incredibly close to our dear Slytherin in manner, attitude, cunning and nastiness! But I digress. I am supposed to be writing a HP story, not raving about the remarkable acting talents (and Snapeish characters) of Alan Rickman. Though it is difficult not to. :) Quite difficult.)
Note #2: Abbé Kuenzle was a Swiss herbalist of, I think, several centuries ago. I don't have my reference text here to check dates, but he was responsible for quite a bit of work in and on herbalism that is still referred to today.
"What?" asked Hermione.
McGonagall rolled her eyes. "Miss Granger, sometimes you are impossibly dense!"
"I'm sure I don't have a clue what you mean," Hermione murmured. Innocently. Too innocently.
"I'm sure you don't," her Head of House said severely.
"Professor, I am the picture of ignorance, I assure you."
"Of course."
"My conception of your meaning is greatly limited. I am completely in the dark!"
"Miss Granger, this is highly unlike you. I'm sure you know exactly what I'm talking about! Listen to yourself. 'My conception of your meaning', indeed. My dear girl, you can't tell me you've been friends with Ron as long as you have without noticing the poor boy hanging on your every movement! Mr Weasely is besotted. At the very least, it is quite obvious to myself and everyone else in your Transfigurations class!" This very un- McGonagall-like outburst was followed by an impassioned clink of coffee cup in saucer. Dear Professor McGonagall, the girl thought amusedly; whenever her stern façade slipped, it was to reveal a fiercely protective and maternal side like that of any mother cat. It was a wonder she didn't have children, really. The way she fussed over her young 'cubs' on those rare occasions showed just how very fond she was of all of them.
Hermione waited a few seconds before she replaced her coffee cup on the table and said, with the straightest face she could manage, "There is your problem, then, Professor McGonagall. I must have been paying far too much attention to Transfigurations to notice the behaviour of my class mates. I apologise for my oversight. Silly of me."
She made a dignified exit before an open-mouthed McGonagall, doubling over with laughter as soon as she was safely outside.
Ron? Oh, dear. Of course she'd noticed! He went red every time he looked at her. But still, he was only a very dear friend. She could never think of him that way anymore than she could, say, Neville.
Regaining her breath, she thought ruefully that it was her fault she was such a star pupil. Because of that, McGonagall doted on her like a favourite niece, or even, heavens forbid, a well-loved granddaughter. And it was a well-documented fact that older women with overdeveloped maternal instincts liked to show young women that they cared about them by arranging and re-arranging their love lives. McGonagall was obviously trying to play matchmaker. Like that dreadful woman in Sense and Sensibility, what was her name again? The one who said "Every suitor needs a little bit of help", then nearly ruined both Marianne's and Elinor's love lives by putting in her two pounds worth!
If it weren't so flaming ludicrous (and for the fact of a virtuous and thorough grounding in the arts of dental care) she would have ground down her teeth to the gums at the thought of her Head of House deciding to play a well-meaning, if slightly unhelpful, Cupid.
Hermione started off towards her room to find some parchment and a quill to owl Harry, since he would have found it hilarious and she could trust him not to breathe a word of it to Ron, when she remembered both that he was on holidays with the Weaselys, so Ron would probably read the note the same time that Harry would, and the one very important little fact that had just slipped her mind. She hadn't told either Harry or Ron about the problem with her parents. They didn't know she was at Hogwarts. And since she hadn't told them that because she didn't want them to pity her (teenage boys being teenage boys, any sympathy would surely degenerate into poorly hidden pity for their 'little Mione' – especially on Ron's part, the loving, silly clod!), she couldn't tell them anything that happened at Hogwarts now without explaining that, so she couldn't owl Harry about this. Damn.
It made her feel rather deflated. So instead, Hermione headed off towards the kitchens in search of comfort food, and the dungeons for the copy of the works of Swiss mediwizard Abbé Kuenzle that Snape had lent her the day after he'd dosed her with one of the man's favourite herbs. Apparently, Kuenzle had worked as much among Muggles, sharing his knowledge of plant lore, as he had among wizards, advancing the quality of medimagic. It was a fascinating topic.
She managed about twenty minutes of blissful study before her solitude was interrupted.
Hermione put down her notebook and sighed. Tenderly she marked her place in the old leather bound volume with reverence, and tucked it away behind her. Out of sight, out of mind.
She fixed a disapproving glare upon her face. "Okay, Luggage," said the Mistress, "Just what have you been up to?"
On penitent feet, the trunk shuffled into the room. "Well?" Hermione demanded. She crossed her arms, then thought better of it. It made her feel like a kid having a tantrum.
"I'm waiting."
The suitcase looked at her sadly. It always amazed her how something that was essentially just a wooden box surrounded by metal strips could seem to have so much personality. "Have you been in trouble again?"
Sorrowfully, its lid wagged. Once.
"What happened? Will you tell me or will I have to drag it out of you?"
Outside the room, Snape stopped. This sounded like a fascinating conversation! Creeping forward, he leant against the wall next to the partially open door.
"C'mon. You didn't chase McGonagall again, since I only left her a little while ago, so what did you do? You didn't try to eat Gollum, did you?"
Scratch, scratch. The luggage indicated a negative by scratching its toenails against the floor.
"Good. I couldn't bear having to go through that again with Filch because of you. Not that he'd probably have anything to do with me if you did it, you know. Not that I'd blame you. I hate that cat. So does McGonagall! You know what she told me? That blasted cat's randy as hell. He thinks, apparently, that she makes a very attractive feline. Between you and that creature, she's afraid to use her animagi form at Hogwarts anymore!
"Alright, I know it's funny, you know it's funny, but it really is serious for Professor McGonagall. The poor woman." Hermione sighed. "Although, maybe it would be good for her to worry about her own 'love' life for a bit. She's getting clucky."
The chest did a little dance of interest. Hermione nodded. "Yes, she wants to marry me off. Or not really marry me off, just set me up with someone. You don't know him. He's on holidays. His name's Ron. He doesn't like cats. I don't know how he feels about suitcases. I mean, he's got one, obviously, but I seriously doubt he's ever spent much time talking to it. It's just a box. No teeth. No feet."
The Luggage hastened to assure her that it wouldn't spend any time talking to something like that, either. Just a box! No personality. No character. No originality! It found the thought quite shocking. It wouldn't have minded meeting a lady Luggage, were the truth to be known in the depths of its sapient pearwood interior, but it had had many years in this world beyond its homeland to learn, sadly, that it was one of a kind.
So it merely rubbed its lid against the Mistress' legs to show its affection for her. If this Professor McGonagall was so certain that its Mistress belonged with this Ron character, when she so obviously didn't like the thought, she would have to go through it, first. Absently, the Luggage jiggled its lock and formulated thoughts of murder.
"Thanks, Luggage. You're a good friend, you know that?"
Of course it did!
"But it makes nice symmetry, I suppose. McGonagall told me Ron's going to be Head Boy, so I guess I can see where she's co-"
A muffled snort made her stop. The luggage did not snort. She had not snorted. There was no cat in her room (a quick check under the bed ascertained Crookshanks was indeed absent).
Hermione looked thoughtfully towards the doorway. Something she saw made her smile.
"You can come in now, Professor Snape. I can see the edge of your cloak."
"Miss Granger." He stalked in, and without asking permission, seated himself in the armchair beside the desk. Opposite where she sat, cross- legged, on the bed.
"Do you always eavesdrop on other people's conversations?"
"It was hardly a conversation, Miss Granger, just a fascinating piece of monologue. And I wasn't exactly 'eavesdropping'." He sneered at the word.
"No, of course not," Hermione said dryly. "You were just walking by and just happened to hear, isn't that right?"
"I object to what you are implying!"
"Well, that's too bad. Guess I might just have to sic Luggage onto you then. What do you think, Luggage?"
It sat thoughtfully. One foot twitched.
"It's not too enthusiastic," Snape observed.
Hermione rolled her eyes. "It probably just doesn't want to leave Lisa an orphan."
"Her name is Mona. An elegant, old name. 'Lisa' is far too common! I have several students named Lisa."
"Oh, dear. We wouldn't want anyone to think you're playing favourites now by naming her after anyone, wouldn't we? Why didn't you just name her Dragon and be done with it? Or Slythie? Or Little Serpent? Or Neville Longbottom II?"
"WHAT??" Snape's startled yelp made the Luggage take a protective step in front of its Mistress. Helplessly, Hermione wiped her eyes.
"Did you say something, Professor?"
"I was just going to say that – Miss Granger, do you always sleep with my textbooks under your pillow?"
"What?" She spun around and made a grab for the book, but Snape moved much faster, and extracted the Kuenzle work from its hiding place before she could.
He held it up in the air. "Yes, the collected works of Abbé Kuenzle, here we are. Property of S. Snape. Says right here on the inside cover." He shut it with a silent flourish. "Well, well, well, Miss Granger. What has the good Abbé Kuenzle been doing under your pillow, I wonder?"
"Catching up on some necessary sleep, I guess. Must be hard work being a famous mediwizard. The light was probably too strong in here for him so he must have crawled under the pillow for some peace." Hermione fixed him with an innocent stare. "That's what I think, Professor."
Snape stared at her for one, long, instant and wondered if he'd heard correctly. Slowly he blinked. His shoulders started to shake and then he began to laugh.
The eyes he brought up to face Hermione's face about ten seconds later were full of mirth. "Since when was sarcasm contagious, Miss Granger?"
"I don't know, Professor. Perhaps we should ask the good Abbé Kuenzle."
"Are you suggesting sarcasm is an infectious disease?"
"You can't deny I've come down with a bad case these holidays, Professor. There must be something in the air here."
"Yes, a nice little germ, socially transmitted and totally untreatable."
Not bad, he thought. His conversational tendencies seemed to be rubbing off on her. It made her quite a pleasant companion, actually. There was nothing he couldn't stand more than someone deliberately trying to be nice and make a good impression. Sharp wit was far better. Or even a little bit of rudeness, since it was clear that the person using it wasn't intimidated by him. (He could have made conversation much less daunting for his interlocutors by making an effort to be nice himself, but Severus had never felt the need to ever apply that term to his person. Nice was for Hufflepuffs, anyway.)
"If it's totally untreatable, what am I going to do? Is my condition going to get worse?"
"Definitely," he said gravely. "It has all the characteristics of a chronic case. I can only suggest that you learn to live with it."
"Will I infect anyone else?"
The sneer returned. "Considering the people in your House, I highly doubt it. The Head Boy probably won't even recognise the symptoms – speaking of Head Boy, are you sure McGonagall was serious? I have a hard time imagining your friend Mr Weasely as Head of anything, unless it's the 'We Hate Potions' club."
"That'd be Neville, wouldn't it?" (No, Ron would be the Head of the 'We Hate Severus Snape' club. Not that she was going to say it.)
Maybe it showed on her face, though, for Snape replied, smiling nastily, "I must concede the point. Mr Weasely would much rather lead a club against me, I presume."
Hermione was surprised by his candour. She looked startled. Snape just shrugged, a slight rustle of flowing black fabric. "I learnt long ago not to care what my students think of me, Miss Granger. As long as they turn up to class, let me take quite a few points off most of them, earn themselves detentions and try not to blow the room up, I am content. Then again, if they didn't turn up I can't say I would be displeased, either – I could just take off points and give out detentions without having to suffer the insufferable gits."
"Oh, you're just whinging," Hermione said. "You know you love teaching. You'd gladly spend hours every day patiently helping all your students with a kind word and a smile for every one."
Snape glared at her in absolute disgust.
"You really like even Neville and Ron deep down, don't you?" She sighed. "Ah, would that I had a vocation as strong as yours. Seeing the love you have of teaching, the joy you get from the eager faces of all the-"
"-terrified little dunderheads-"
"-sweet students clamouring eagerly to-"
"-run screaming from the room-"
"-learn every bit of knowledge that you can give them-"
"-in detention-"
"-when they can – you're really not helping, are you? I'm trying but you're not making this easy."
"Yes, you're trying, alright."
"And you're just plain difficult."
"I commend your powers of observation, Hermione."
"Yes, Severus, I'm really quite clever when I try."
He stiffened and the easy bantering mood between them evaporated. "Miss Granger, I, it is really quite inappropriate, that is to say-"
"You mean we can bicker like anything but 'Severus' is inappropriate? Sorry, then, Professor Snape. It wasn't intended."
Hermione leant across and snatched the textbook from his unresponsive hands. She opened it across her lap and grabbed up her notebook and quill.
"Feel free to leave whenever you like, Professor."
She scratched the quill viciously across her page. It left a furrow, but the ink had long dried. Hermione swore and reached for the inkwell.
Her hand closed upon Snape's. She stared coldly at him. "I believe the door is open. May I have my ink now, please?"
"No." He peeled her fingers from the small container and placed it on the table, out of her immediate reach.
"Why not? Isn't the sight of a student doing work a pleasant one?"
"Not when I wish to talk to her, no. Hermione."
"That will be Miss Granger, Professor."
Snape held her gaze without moving. "I think you understand that this behaviour is far beyond the boundaries of a normal teacher-student relationship. I blame myself for not enforcing the rules more stringently. But I felt that as you had recently suffered a bereavement-"
"Yes, that's right, it's all my fault, isn't it?"
"-you would benefit more from someone to talk with rather than a distant professor. And I confess I have found it quite relaxing at times, too. But, Miss Granger, I am aware that this cannot go on anymore. School resumes next week. I will speak to Professor McGonagall about your relocation to the Head Girl's room. No doubt she will be pleased by the thought of you settling in early, and I presume she will arrange something if you still do not wish to tell your friends about the nature of your holidays." Something like a flicker of regret passed across his face. More kindly, he said "I apologise, Miss Granger, but you are aware of the nature of the situation. No doubt you felt the conversation warranted your use of my first name – I realise I let it stray far beyond the confines of normal, appropriate behaviour – but such 'bickering' must cease, even though you are to be Head Girl and would therefore normally enjoy a closer, ah, relationship with your teachers than would be the norm for other students, and-"
"You're babbling, Professor. Severus."
Once again, she saw him flinch. Slowly, Hermione got to her feet and stood in front of him. Out of the corner of her eyes she noticed the Luggage scurrying through the doorway.
"Why are you babbling?" Calm, Hermione, keep calm. She hid her shaking hands behind her back and tried to keep her voice steady.
Snape looked desperately towards the doorway. But the luggage, bless its little wooden heart, had pushed the door firmly shut when it had left. Most likely it was sitting outside the door until Hermione told it otherwise.
"Did you train that thing?"
She shook her head, smiled slightly. "No, it takes it upon itself to anticipate my wishes."
"You wished for it to chase your Head of House?"
"Don't try to change the subject." Hermione fixed him with a level gaze, trying to fathom his hooded expression. "Why were you so lost for words?"
"I believe I came up with quite a few words under the circumstances, you can hardly deem that to be lost for words!"
She smiled a bit more. "Under what circumstances would those be, Severus?"
"Please, let's end this conversation now, Hermione. You don't want to carry this any further."
"You're just a teensy bit desperate there, aren't you? Why?"
Gently, Severus brushed an errant curl away from her face. "Please, Hermione," he said softly.
"Why?" she repeated in a voice equally as soft.
"Let's just say that I am as guilty of inappropriate behaviour as you, only I would be far more were this conversation to continue. Despite the sad circumstances that led to your coming here these holidays, I feel it would not be inaccurate to say that they have not been all bad. Have they?"
"No."
"But school itself is – has to be – much different." He let his hand drop. A mischievous look started to creep onto his sombre face. "If it's any consolation, you bicker like an excellent fishwife."
"So do you. Skinned any good trout lately?"
"Miss Granger!"
"I'm sorry, too. Severus. I've always thought of you as a terrible git, so I have to be just as bad myself now, since I've really enjoyed your company these past weeks."
He stayed silent.
"Just because you're horrible, and ugly, and nasty, and cruel to my entire House doesn't mean we can't still be friends."
"So says the fishwife who's just confessed she believes herself to be equally as bad as my lowly self."
Hermione snorted. A reluctant grin appeared. "Point, conceded."
"Indeed."
"But I have come to consider you a friend. And, Severus, I don't have many friends, so forgive me if I seem a little reluctant to let one go just because school is resuming? I promise, I will do my best to detest you on all occasions."
Quietly, he laughed, and his hand crept up to rest on her shoulder. "Has anyone ever told you that you're considerably unusual?"
"Mum and Dad."
His smile vanished. "I didn't mean that."
"I know. I understand."
"Well…" He nodded thoughtfully. His professorial demeanour returned. "All the proprieties must still be observed on all occasions, however, and all proper respect must always be shown. By both yourself, and that tame suitcase of yours."
"Snape, I simply said I didn't want to lose your friendship, I wasn't proposing marriage!"
Snape started violently. He choked and tried to turn it into a cough. Flinch number three, she observed with amusement.
"Of course." He inclined his head stiffly. "Anyone who thinks that I would willingly shackle myself to such an argumentative, screeching fishwife needs a visit to St. Mungo's."
"Likewise. In reverse." Hermione turned away and rapped on the door. "Alright, Luggage, I'm going to open the door now. Stand clear."
But the corridor, when revealed, was empty. The Luggage was long gone.
Disclaimer/Author's Note: Luggage & the Potterverse don't belong to me, as usual! The reference to Sense and Sensibility comes about since I've just finished watching it for the umpteenth time. Alan Rickman is as incredible as ever. (After that I went through my other Rickman videos, Truly Madly Deeply, The Barchester Chronicles, and Die Hard. All wonderful – but I enjoyed Barchester (1982) much more now, after the HP movie, since his character in that, one Obadiah Slope, is incredibly close to our dear Slytherin in manner, attitude, cunning and nastiness! But I digress. I am supposed to be writing a HP story, not raving about the remarkable acting talents (and Snapeish characters) of Alan Rickman. Though it is difficult not to. :) Quite difficult.)
Note #2: Abbé Kuenzle was a Swiss herbalist of, I think, several centuries ago. I don't have my reference text here to check dates, but he was responsible for quite a bit of work in and on herbalism that is still referred to today.