Wonders Unceasing
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Author's Note: The chapter title is competing for the Least Original Chapter Title of the Decade Award. I think titles have their own special breed of bunny, and my over-energetic Plot variety scares them away.
Disclaimer: They are not mine, much as I might wish it. I am merely a penniless student of the written word worshipping at the feet of the Mistress, who owns everything barring the possibly original plot ideas that might have crept in here somewhere.
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Chapter Two: The Cold Light of Day
"Harry! Oh Harry!" It was a girl's cry, thick with tears of sorrow and joy.
The cry made Snape want to vomit... Which begged the question of why he was still around to have his stomach turned by the audible display of unguarded emotion. Potter's voice murmured a response, sickeningly brave in its weakness, muttering condolences and reassurances. Granger was sobbing on his shoulder, no doubt. She would have survived. Of course. His first instincts had been right after all. He should have listened to them, rather than indulging in fooling sentimentality- even if it had only been within the privacy of his private thoughts. Granger was the sort of person who survived. Harry Bloody Potter wasn't, Exhibit A being his father James, but seemingly the Boy Who Lived was now The Boy Who Lived Twice anyway.
Given the familiar smells that assailed his nostrils, Hogwarts had also survived. The Hospital Wing was still sheltered and warm and his supine frame was accommodated on a reasonably comfortable bed, not the shelf of a prison cell. He could therefore reasonable assume that they had 'won', if being the side to come out alive with a partially intact building to show for it could be claimed a victory. He'd reserve judgement on Voldemort's demise until he had irrefutable evidence. The mere loss of a body had, after all, not stopped him last time.
Snape sourly turned to self-contemplation, running a personal inventory of his body with the ease of long and painful practice. Everything still appeared to be attached. The skin down his right side felt tight and hot, and would undoubtedly itch later. His thigh throbbed faintly, as did his right shoulder. There was a metallic-tasting gap in his top teeth, but the loss of a few teeth was not going to cause him any regrets. His guts felt simultaneously hollow, bloated and raw, and he had the nasty suspicion he'd be on a liquid diet for the next few days, but all in all he'd come off lightly. A few more moments to rest, and he'd try moving...
"Ow!" A pained protest reached Snape's ears. His lips twitched in irritation.
"Oh, Harry, sorry! I'm sorry, I forgot..." The female voice was unrecognisably muffled.
"Don't worry about it." Harold B. Potter, so manly and heroic.
There was a loud sniffle. Snape had to try very hard not to heave.
"I'm making your shirt all wet," the girl mumbled, and Snape cursed her for the image of Harry Potter in a wet shirt surrounded by adoring fans.
"I don't mind." Merlin's Beard, Snape could hear the smile in the boy's voice, the lopsided one that had persistently distracted most of the female element of the Seventh Year potions class for the last few terms, as well as one or two of the other boys. It was James all over again! All Potters should be required to attend classes with a bag over their heads. Maybe then there would be a few more successful potions and a few less scorch-marks on the dungeon's desks.
There was the sound of a very juicy nose being thoroughly blown. Snape help his breath and swallowed hard.
"I must look a sight..." Why did every woman on the planet seem to have their appearance as the first, second and third item on their list of priorities? Or did they assume that if they looked adorable then the men would do the hard work of actually surviving?
"You look adorable..." Now Snape knew he was going to retch.
"You're just trying to make me feel better." Despite whatever stereotypical failings they might accurately be accused of, Snape thought sourly, all females appeared possessed of an innate talent for manipulation of the male mind. That last comment was obviously calculated to induce protestations of denial followed by further compliments.
"Did it work?" Snape felt a momentary spurt of pride on behalf of his gender when the trap was side-stepped, and grudgingly admitted that Potter had learned something in those interminable years of annoying adolescence.
"A bit..." Snape winced at the breathy suggestion. If Potter wanted the girl, he undoubtedly had her well hooked. He didn't need to be able to see the pair of them to know she was cuddled against his chest, tilting her face invitingly upwards beneath his chin. Those two soft words painted the picture with unwelcome clarity. Snape swallowed the bile that rose in his throat and refused to admit even to himself that his nausea might owe more to injury than to the sounds of affection... Great Goddess, how could a kiss sound so loud! He stifled a groan, and tried to burrow his ears deeper into the pillow.
"You're awake, then," someone told him.
"Obviously," he snarled. "How could anyone sleep through that touching display?"
"Mmm, acid enough, but lacks the usual biting wit. Not quite yourself yet," the Someone concluded.
Snape irritably opened his eyes and found Someone, in the person of Hermione Granger, seated beside him. The hair he had last seen tumbled wildly about her head, wet and bedraggled and matted with blood, was now dragged back into a frizzy pony-tail. Her face was still pale, too grave and old for a child- a woman- of her years, with grey smudges beneath her shadowed brown eyes. It was cleaned and healed, but it was still held the drawn intensity of an overtired warrior caught behind enemy lines. It was an expression he'd seen too often of late, etched onto the faces around him. It was an expression he'd known for years, looking back at him from every mirror he passed.
Blinking stupidly for a second, Snape glanced in the direction he guessed he'd find Potter in and saw him tightly embracing a redheaded girl.
Ginny Weasley.
And not another red-head in sight.
Oh.
So her brother hadn't made it.
Snape hoped Granger wasn't there to try blubbering all over his shoulder about it. He frowned, chasing an errant recollection. "Longbottom?" he asked as he tracked down the thought. He was profoundly grateful that Granger didn't give him an approving look for his selfless query about another's welfare. She didn't really give him any look at all, her feelings tucked carefully away where they would not get in the way, where they could not hurt, where they could be forgotten until there was time to examine them and perhaps they could remain buried forever.
"He's fine. Well, as fine as anybody can be after a double dose of the Cruciatus Curse." The silent assumption that Snape would be familiar enough with that was left hanging in the air. "He's walking, anyway. Professor Dumbledore's okay, and Hagrid, and Professor Sprout... and Madam Pomfrey, of course." She fell silent, leaving Snape to wonder if she'd chosen those other four out of some insight into the few people he'd actually come to respect, or simply because everyone else had gone.
"You?" Snape asked.
Granger tensed, shrugged and looked away. Physically she seemed healthy enough, her breathing calm, her small movements unrestricted by pain.
"Not... with Potter?" Snape had almost said 'commiserating', and had managed to bite it back. Even a greasy git had enough respect not to speak scathingly of the dead.
Granger snorted and waved a hand towards Potter and the Weasley girl, who were now both tangled on the narrow infirmary bed in an almost indecently intimate position.
"He's looking after Ginny. She's looking after him." She made a sound that was suspiciously like a choked and angry sob, quickly suppressed. "I can't believe how many people are... doing that. After everything that's happened! How can they even think of it? And people are already talking about a party." She spat the word with venom, and gave Snape a grim little smile of companionable sympathy when he grimaced at the concept. "Celebrating the victory. I can't even hide in the library. Flitwick set fire to it..."
Snape blinked at the raw hatred resonating within her as she mentioned the name. "Then perhaps you'll finally discover that not all lessons can be learned from books, Miss Granger," he drawled, casting Incendio at the dry tinder of her emotion before its flames could consume her from the inside.
Granger's anger blazed suddenly, her face flushing and then blanching white, her fists raising involuntarily as the full force of her deadly glare struck the Potion's Master. He returned it impassively, one eyebrow quirking upwards as if daring attack, until Granger's shoulders sagged and she looked away again. "Thank you," she mumbled, and fell silent again.
The moments stretched into minutes. Ginny Weasley stumbled from the bed, closed the curtains around it, and returned to Potter's embrace. Granger stared stubbornly at the wall, her hands in her lap where her fingers steadily picked away at her fingernails.
"Miss Granger," Snape said eventually, breaking the silence. "If you are here in some misguided attempt to bring a little brightness to the joyless life of the sick and wounded then you are failing in a truly spectacular fashion."
Granger finally turned her head and glowered at him.
Snape sighed tiredly. "If, as I suspect, you are in fact here for a good reason then I suggest you spit it out before we both fossilise."
"Not here," Granger muttered. "Not..." she nodded towards the other beds and concealing curtains. "Perhaps you could give me detention. In the dungeons. During the party. I'm sure I could do something to earn it."
"How very lacking in public spirit, Miss Granger," Snape said, settling into his familiar sneer. "Not to mention the cowardly example you'd set your Housemates, hiding away while everyone else is having fun." He didn't trouble to hide his contempt for the concept of jollity. "I'd deduct points, but, as Longbottom pointed out earlier, that hardly seems relevant any more."
"It's my last day of school tomorrow anyway," Granger said distantly. "That is... it would be. I doubt there'll be any sort of graduation now. Not after... everything." There was a weight of meaning behind the words, far heavier than the simple knowledge that the final grades were unlikely to have been foremost on anybody's mind during the past few days, or even the recent loss of a teacher who had been both mentor and friend and the betrayal of another who had seemed to be so. Her breath caught, and Snape heard her sniff sharply.
"Spare me the maudlin self-pity, Miss Granger," he spat. "If you want sympathy, go bawling to Potter." Granger's spine went rigid. The glare was back. Snape relaxed slightly. "Wipe that gormless stare off your face, girl, and make yourself useful rather than sitting around like a piece of lost luggage. If Poppy doesn't have something to keep your hands busy you may as well come with me. The wastrels around here will no doubt have made over-enthusiastic use of the healing potions in the stores, under the touchingly faithful assumption that I would actually be around to replace them."
"You almost weren't," Granger informed him coldly. "If it wasn't for Neville-"
"Then my Potions classes would have been a far less stressful experience," Snape interrupted, his intimidating frown daring her to say any more on the subject of his debt to Longbottom.
Granger frowned back. Then, disconcertingly, she smiled. "I'd be happy to help you brew some potions, Professor Snape," she said sweetly. "Why don't you lead the way?"
Snape cursed himself, knowing she had him caught. Slowly he manoeuvred himself upright, keeping his eyes firmly closed in an effort to stop the room from spinning in response to the motion. He determinedly told his stomach that it was not to empty itself and make a fool of him in front of a student. Once he was accustomed to sitting upright, he opened his eyes. There was a vial hovering before them, held by a deceptively helpful-looking Granger.
"Madam Pomfrey thought you might want this. It's supposed to help with nausea. But as you're obviously feeling fine-" she made as if to put it away again, but Snape made a successful grab for it, swallowing back the response the sudden lurch produced and hastily tipping the contents down his throat. "Your reactions seem to be up to speed, anyway," Granger told him. "Madam Pomfrey said I was to make sure you stayed here, but as you're a Professor and I'm only a student..." she shrugged. "Although you'd probably better hurry if you want to run away. She'll coming back to check on you soon."
Snape wished for the days when she'd quailed at his scowl. Now she merely returned it with interest.
"Well?" Granger asked, outwardly cool and composed. She rose from her seat, gracefully, Snape noted; and he had experience enough to recognise it as the grace of a duellist. Perhaps the company of Potter and Weasley had not been such a bad choice after all, if their instinct for dragging her into danger had honed her youthful energy and sharp intellect into an effective fighter. It was almost a pity that if Voldemort really could be removed from the picture she was likely to get pushed into some harmless Ministry position where those in charge wouldn't have to feel intimidated by her.
Snape stiffened to stop himself from flinching as she stooped slightly and set a hand on his left forearm: small, warm and strong. "Miss Granger," he warned.
"I've been wondering," she said, only a faint apology in her tone, "how we'd be able to tell. Harry's scar's gone, but..." she patted his sleeve. "I'd prefer to have corroborating evidence."
Snape mentally berated himself for not having thought of checking for himself. So he was not the only one slow to believe that the Dark Lord might finally be dead?
"Reading my mind, Miss Granger?" Snape's fingers plucked at the hem of the sleeve. Then, with a derisive snort for his hesitation, he drew back the rough fabric of the hospital gown and regarded his arm. He knew that his expression remained emotionless, and it was not altogether a false reflection of his inner state. The absence of the mark that had ruled his life for so long was something that would take a while to sink in. What he mostly felt at that moment was numb and exhausted.
"I suppose that will have to do," Granger sighed. "There was a body," she added in a tight voice. Her gaze flickered to the ground.
Snape recognised guilt when he saw it, and blamed it on idiotic Gryffindor chivalry. "Perhaps you'd prefer it if he'd survived?"
Granger's eyes met his, with a force that was almost physical in its resolution. It was not an expression Snape wanted to see from the wrong end of a wand. "No," she said, and the word did not need to be loud. Then the palpable sense of purpose faded. She looked away again uncertainly, before collecting herself. "Are you coming or not," she snapped.
"Acid enough, but lacks the recent biting wit." Snape eased his weight onto his legs, testing the healed break in his thigh.
"How original, Professor," Granger said dryly, then cringed as a moan of pleasure filtered through the curtains around Potter's bed. "Let's get out of here."
Snape allowed himself a humourless chuckle. If Granger had ever been a member of the Cult of Harry Potter then the shine had worn off long ago; and he rather thought that her attachment to the Boy Who Irritated came despite his fame, not because of it. Despite the name, and the uncomplimentary comments that Potter and Weasley had flung her way during their early acquaintance, and her undisguised frustration with their cavalier attitudes and lack of appreciation for scholarly pursuits. Granger clearly had greater reserves of patience and tolerance than Snape had himself.
Those reserves seemed to have been depleted. She was tapping her foot as she waited for him to make a move. He toyed with the childish urge to keep her waiting purely to annoy her further, but another moan from the next bed was sufficient to motivate him towards the door. He stopped with one hand on the door handle, telling himself that he wasn't using it to keep himself upright and wondering a little dizzily why Granger hadn't followed.
She gave him a long look up and down, eyebrows raising slowly, smiling slightly. Snape glanced down. His lips thinned, and he scowled, trying to achieve in a baggy white hospital gown the effect he achieved so effortlessly when clad in billowing black robes. "I fail to see what you find so amusing, Miss Granger."
He waited for the comeback that he knew Granger was capable of, but she simply shook her head. "It's probably hysteria," she said and came over to him, holding out an arm draped with deep green silk. "Madam Pomfrey had your dressing gown brought over from your rooms. You'd better wear it. If any of the First Years see you like that they'll have a fit."
Snape felt absurdly grateful for the garment, and covered the fact with a sneer. "After having survived Voldemort's best efforts, Miss Granger?"
To Snape's immense surprise, Granger grinned at him. "After having survived your Potions lessons I doubt any of the youngsters found their part of the fighting to be that terrifying. But Professor Snape in white? That really would mean the end of the world."
"If they are truly that frail of spirit then they obviously need further toughening up." Snape ungraciously pulled his dressing gown from Granger's arm, and started the uncomfortable process of putting it on while remaining upright and causing the least possible aggravation to his injuries.
Granger failed to look offended at the lack of thanks. "You're going to deprive them of the opportunity by dressing anyway? How selfish of you, Professor."
Snape regarded her darkly. "I'm sure I can find a sufficiently disconcerting alternative, Miss Granger. Perhaps I could try being nice to one of them."
There was a twist to the corner of Granger's lips that was positively devious. "That would be cruel! They're paranoid enough as it is. Anyway, would you know how?" she added dubiously.
"I'm sure I could find something positive about the little idiots, if I had to. A few of them have mastered the undervalued art of keeping their mouths shut, for example." Snape drew out the last words into a drawl, eyeing Granger significantly.
"Well, that's one compliment you could try," she responded, choosing to remain oblivious to his suggestion. "Although it's too much like an insult to really unnerve them. It would have to be something completely out of character."
Snape blinked. Granger was playing games, and he couldn't work out what exactly she was up to. He really wasn't at his best, he privately admitted, when he found a Gryffindor's schemes to be anything but crystal clear. "To be properly unbalancing it would also have to be true," he pointed out, sticking to the obvious line of conversation in the hope of uncovering the underlying motivation for it.
"I suppose it would," Granger said, "if your put-downs are anything to go by."
Snape waved away the obvious with an impatient hand gesture. Of course the unsympathetic criticism of genuine faults had more bite to them. Insults that were obviously unfair merely invited anger, or tears, along with a nice side-order of self-righteousness. Genuine criticism forced deliberate denial, active acceptance or change. The effects of praise were far harder to control. "Your talent for stating the obvious is truly breathtaking, Miss Granger."
Granger gave him a scathing look. "Did you know you have a wonderful voice, Professor?"
Snape paused for the follow up, and felt obscurely wrong-footed when none was forthcoming.
Granger was watching him with glee. "See?"
Snape set his jaw and narrowed his eyes. He would not be outsmarted by a student, let alone a Gryffindor. Unfortunately he was still unsure what the rules of this game were, and had the nasty feeling that however he played he was automatically on the losing side. "You have a particularly fascinating personal library, Miss Granger."
"I do?" Granger was still enjoying herself.
"Oh yes. Very... parchmenty. And..." He leaned in, and lowered his voice to a silken murmur. If he couldn't guess the rules, he'd start a game of his own. "...brown."
Granger made a tiny choking sound that could have been nervousness, but the dancing light in her eyes meant it was more likely to be a giggle. "I'm sure you can do better than that, Professor. Has anyone ever told you that you have beautiful hands?"
Snape coughed, unnerved yet again. "Has anyone ever mentioned your feet, Miss Granger?"
Granger gave him an odd look. "Mentioned my feet?"
Snape nodded slowly. "Your feet, Miss Granger." He leaned closer still. "You have two of them." Granger couldn't hide her giggle that time. Snape bent to whisper right into her ear. "And they both touch the ground."
Granger pulled away enough to turn her head and stare at him. Then she burst out laughing. Snape regarded her in sardonic amusement. "Your talent for stating the obvious is truly breathtaking, Professor Snape." She shook her head, still chuckling. Snape found himself involuntarily responding in kind. "Okay, I'll let you off," Granger spluttered. "You don't have to be nice to the First Years."
The curtain about Potter's bed was twitched aside in response to the laughter. Two heads peeped through, flushed and startled. The surprise amplified into utter bemusement at the sight of the dreaded Potions Master smiling and Hermione Granger giggling to the point of tears. Potter's mouth dropped open, then flapped shut again.
"Hermione?" Potter asked, shocked. He looked between Snape and Granger, as if trying to take it in but finding it too much.
The uncharacteristic mirth dropped from Snape's features, frown lines settling back into place, deepening as his brows lowered and his lips twisted downwards. "Though it pains me to admit as much, Miss Granger, you were right. It must be hysteria. If you must inflict me with your inconsequential questions you can do so in the potions classroom, while putting your idle hands and empty head to performing some useful work for a change." He swept through the door, managing to get a swirl from his silken dressing-gown.
A few moments later the door banged behind him, and Granger's running footsteps caught him up. "My compliments on the exit, Professor. Very dramatic. Nice recovery. But you've used that 'empty head' insult at least ten times now, and 'idle hands'? Not exactly original. They're like the minor analgesic potions- after a while, they lose their effectiveness. Or is that the idea? Building up tolerance and immunity?"
"No." Snape did not bother to slow his pace to suit Granger's shorter legs, his dressing gown flapping with the speed of his stride. "I simply enjoy humiliating people."
Granger lapsed into an unnervingly thoughtful silence that was less irritating but more worrying than her garrulousness of a moment before. "Okay," she said after a while.
Snape stopped at the door to the Potions laboratory, and swung to face her. "Okay?" He imbued the word with all the contempt and disbelief he could muster. "That is all you have to say?"
Granger merely folded her arms and smiled up at him. "I think there was some work to get on with, Professor Snape sir?"
Snape studied her for a moment, reading her face, and had to fight not to shudder. Hermione Granger liked nothing better than a mental challenge, and he'd come to the sudden and awful realisation that he was her current project.
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Zebee, iejasu and pigwidgeon37, thank you very much for your comments! Reassuring to know that someone out there read the first chapter, and it was nice to know which bits in particular caught the attention. I hope you enjoy this chapter too. :)
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Author's Note: The chapter title is competing for the Least Original Chapter Title of the Decade Award. I think titles have their own special breed of bunny, and my over-energetic Plot variety scares them away.
Disclaimer: They are not mine, much as I might wish it. I am merely a penniless student of the written word worshipping at the feet of the Mistress, who owns everything barring the possibly original plot ideas that might have crept in here somewhere.
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Chapter Two: The Cold Light of Day
"Harry! Oh Harry!" It was a girl's cry, thick with tears of sorrow and joy.
The cry made Snape want to vomit... Which begged the question of why he was still around to have his stomach turned by the audible display of unguarded emotion. Potter's voice murmured a response, sickeningly brave in its weakness, muttering condolences and reassurances. Granger was sobbing on his shoulder, no doubt. She would have survived. Of course. His first instincts had been right after all. He should have listened to them, rather than indulging in fooling sentimentality- even if it had only been within the privacy of his private thoughts. Granger was the sort of person who survived. Harry Bloody Potter wasn't, Exhibit A being his father James, but seemingly the Boy Who Lived was now The Boy Who Lived Twice anyway.
Given the familiar smells that assailed his nostrils, Hogwarts had also survived. The Hospital Wing was still sheltered and warm and his supine frame was accommodated on a reasonably comfortable bed, not the shelf of a prison cell. He could therefore reasonable assume that they had 'won', if being the side to come out alive with a partially intact building to show for it could be claimed a victory. He'd reserve judgement on Voldemort's demise until he had irrefutable evidence. The mere loss of a body had, after all, not stopped him last time.
Snape sourly turned to self-contemplation, running a personal inventory of his body with the ease of long and painful practice. Everything still appeared to be attached. The skin down his right side felt tight and hot, and would undoubtedly itch later. His thigh throbbed faintly, as did his right shoulder. There was a metallic-tasting gap in his top teeth, but the loss of a few teeth was not going to cause him any regrets. His guts felt simultaneously hollow, bloated and raw, and he had the nasty suspicion he'd be on a liquid diet for the next few days, but all in all he'd come off lightly. A few more moments to rest, and he'd try moving...
"Ow!" A pained protest reached Snape's ears. His lips twitched in irritation.
"Oh, Harry, sorry! I'm sorry, I forgot..." The female voice was unrecognisably muffled.
"Don't worry about it." Harold B. Potter, so manly and heroic.
There was a loud sniffle. Snape had to try very hard not to heave.
"I'm making your shirt all wet," the girl mumbled, and Snape cursed her for the image of Harry Potter in a wet shirt surrounded by adoring fans.
"I don't mind." Merlin's Beard, Snape could hear the smile in the boy's voice, the lopsided one that had persistently distracted most of the female element of the Seventh Year potions class for the last few terms, as well as one or two of the other boys. It was James all over again! All Potters should be required to attend classes with a bag over their heads. Maybe then there would be a few more successful potions and a few less scorch-marks on the dungeon's desks.
There was the sound of a very juicy nose being thoroughly blown. Snape help his breath and swallowed hard.
"I must look a sight..." Why did every woman on the planet seem to have their appearance as the first, second and third item on their list of priorities? Or did they assume that if they looked adorable then the men would do the hard work of actually surviving?
"You look adorable..." Now Snape knew he was going to retch.
"You're just trying to make me feel better." Despite whatever stereotypical failings they might accurately be accused of, Snape thought sourly, all females appeared possessed of an innate talent for manipulation of the male mind. That last comment was obviously calculated to induce protestations of denial followed by further compliments.
"Did it work?" Snape felt a momentary spurt of pride on behalf of his gender when the trap was side-stepped, and grudgingly admitted that Potter had learned something in those interminable years of annoying adolescence.
"A bit..." Snape winced at the breathy suggestion. If Potter wanted the girl, he undoubtedly had her well hooked. He didn't need to be able to see the pair of them to know she was cuddled against his chest, tilting her face invitingly upwards beneath his chin. Those two soft words painted the picture with unwelcome clarity. Snape swallowed the bile that rose in his throat and refused to admit even to himself that his nausea might owe more to injury than to the sounds of affection... Great Goddess, how could a kiss sound so loud! He stifled a groan, and tried to burrow his ears deeper into the pillow.
"You're awake, then," someone told him.
"Obviously," he snarled. "How could anyone sleep through that touching display?"
"Mmm, acid enough, but lacks the usual biting wit. Not quite yourself yet," the Someone concluded.
Snape irritably opened his eyes and found Someone, in the person of Hermione Granger, seated beside him. The hair he had last seen tumbled wildly about her head, wet and bedraggled and matted with blood, was now dragged back into a frizzy pony-tail. Her face was still pale, too grave and old for a child- a woman- of her years, with grey smudges beneath her shadowed brown eyes. It was cleaned and healed, but it was still held the drawn intensity of an overtired warrior caught behind enemy lines. It was an expression he'd seen too often of late, etched onto the faces around him. It was an expression he'd known for years, looking back at him from every mirror he passed.
Blinking stupidly for a second, Snape glanced in the direction he guessed he'd find Potter in and saw him tightly embracing a redheaded girl.
Ginny Weasley.
And not another red-head in sight.
Oh.
So her brother hadn't made it.
Snape hoped Granger wasn't there to try blubbering all over his shoulder about it. He frowned, chasing an errant recollection. "Longbottom?" he asked as he tracked down the thought. He was profoundly grateful that Granger didn't give him an approving look for his selfless query about another's welfare. She didn't really give him any look at all, her feelings tucked carefully away where they would not get in the way, where they could not hurt, where they could be forgotten until there was time to examine them and perhaps they could remain buried forever.
"He's fine. Well, as fine as anybody can be after a double dose of the Cruciatus Curse." The silent assumption that Snape would be familiar enough with that was left hanging in the air. "He's walking, anyway. Professor Dumbledore's okay, and Hagrid, and Professor Sprout... and Madam Pomfrey, of course." She fell silent, leaving Snape to wonder if she'd chosen those other four out of some insight into the few people he'd actually come to respect, or simply because everyone else had gone.
"You?" Snape asked.
Granger tensed, shrugged and looked away. Physically she seemed healthy enough, her breathing calm, her small movements unrestricted by pain.
"Not... with Potter?" Snape had almost said 'commiserating', and had managed to bite it back. Even a greasy git had enough respect not to speak scathingly of the dead.
Granger snorted and waved a hand towards Potter and the Weasley girl, who were now both tangled on the narrow infirmary bed in an almost indecently intimate position.
"He's looking after Ginny. She's looking after him." She made a sound that was suspiciously like a choked and angry sob, quickly suppressed. "I can't believe how many people are... doing that. After everything that's happened! How can they even think of it? And people are already talking about a party." She spat the word with venom, and gave Snape a grim little smile of companionable sympathy when he grimaced at the concept. "Celebrating the victory. I can't even hide in the library. Flitwick set fire to it..."
Snape blinked at the raw hatred resonating within her as she mentioned the name. "Then perhaps you'll finally discover that not all lessons can be learned from books, Miss Granger," he drawled, casting Incendio at the dry tinder of her emotion before its flames could consume her from the inside.
Granger's anger blazed suddenly, her face flushing and then blanching white, her fists raising involuntarily as the full force of her deadly glare struck the Potion's Master. He returned it impassively, one eyebrow quirking upwards as if daring attack, until Granger's shoulders sagged and she looked away again. "Thank you," she mumbled, and fell silent again.
The moments stretched into minutes. Ginny Weasley stumbled from the bed, closed the curtains around it, and returned to Potter's embrace. Granger stared stubbornly at the wall, her hands in her lap where her fingers steadily picked away at her fingernails.
"Miss Granger," Snape said eventually, breaking the silence. "If you are here in some misguided attempt to bring a little brightness to the joyless life of the sick and wounded then you are failing in a truly spectacular fashion."
Granger finally turned her head and glowered at him.
Snape sighed tiredly. "If, as I suspect, you are in fact here for a good reason then I suggest you spit it out before we both fossilise."
"Not here," Granger muttered. "Not..." she nodded towards the other beds and concealing curtains. "Perhaps you could give me detention. In the dungeons. During the party. I'm sure I could do something to earn it."
"How very lacking in public spirit, Miss Granger," Snape said, settling into his familiar sneer. "Not to mention the cowardly example you'd set your Housemates, hiding away while everyone else is having fun." He didn't trouble to hide his contempt for the concept of jollity. "I'd deduct points, but, as Longbottom pointed out earlier, that hardly seems relevant any more."
"It's my last day of school tomorrow anyway," Granger said distantly. "That is... it would be. I doubt there'll be any sort of graduation now. Not after... everything." There was a weight of meaning behind the words, far heavier than the simple knowledge that the final grades were unlikely to have been foremost on anybody's mind during the past few days, or even the recent loss of a teacher who had been both mentor and friend and the betrayal of another who had seemed to be so. Her breath caught, and Snape heard her sniff sharply.
"Spare me the maudlin self-pity, Miss Granger," he spat. "If you want sympathy, go bawling to Potter." Granger's spine went rigid. The glare was back. Snape relaxed slightly. "Wipe that gormless stare off your face, girl, and make yourself useful rather than sitting around like a piece of lost luggage. If Poppy doesn't have something to keep your hands busy you may as well come with me. The wastrels around here will no doubt have made over-enthusiastic use of the healing potions in the stores, under the touchingly faithful assumption that I would actually be around to replace them."
"You almost weren't," Granger informed him coldly. "If it wasn't for Neville-"
"Then my Potions classes would have been a far less stressful experience," Snape interrupted, his intimidating frown daring her to say any more on the subject of his debt to Longbottom.
Granger frowned back. Then, disconcertingly, she smiled. "I'd be happy to help you brew some potions, Professor Snape," she said sweetly. "Why don't you lead the way?"
Snape cursed himself, knowing she had him caught. Slowly he manoeuvred himself upright, keeping his eyes firmly closed in an effort to stop the room from spinning in response to the motion. He determinedly told his stomach that it was not to empty itself and make a fool of him in front of a student. Once he was accustomed to sitting upright, he opened his eyes. There was a vial hovering before them, held by a deceptively helpful-looking Granger.
"Madam Pomfrey thought you might want this. It's supposed to help with nausea. But as you're obviously feeling fine-" she made as if to put it away again, but Snape made a successful grab for it, swallowing back the response the sudden lurch produced and hastily tipping the contents down his throat. "Your reactions seem to be up to speed, anyway," Granger told him. "Madam Pomfrey said I was to make sure you stayed here, but as you're a Professor and I'm only a student..." she shrugged. "Although you'd probably better hurry if you want to run away. She'll coming back to check on you soon."
Snape wished for the days when she'd quailed at his scowl. Now she merely returned it with interest.
"Well?" Granger asked, outwardly cool and composed. She rose from her seat, gracefully, Snape noted; and he had experience enough to recognise it as the grace of a duellist. Perhaps the company of Potter and Weasley had not been such a bad choice after all, if their instinct for dragging her into danger had honed her youthful energy and sharp intellect into an effective fighter. It was almost a pity that if Voldemort really could be removed from the picture she was likely to get pushed into some harmless Ministry position where those in charge wouldn't have to feel intimidated by her.
Snape stiffened to stop himself from flinching as she stooped slightly and set a hand on his left forearm: small, warm and strong. "Miss Granger," he warned.
"I've been wondering," she said, only a faint apology in her tone, "how we'd be able to tell. Harry's scar's gone, but..." she patted his sleeve. "I'd prefer to have corroborating evidence."
Snape mentally berated himself for not having thought of checking for himself. So he was not the only one slow to believe that the Dark Lord might finally be dead?
"Reading my mind, Miss Granger?" Snape's fingers plucked at the hem of the sleeve. Then, with a derisive snort for his hesitation, he drew back the rough fabric of the hospital gown and regarded his arm. He knew that his expression remained emotionless, and it was not altogether a false reflection of his inner state. The absence of the mark that had ruled his life for so long was something that would take a while to sink in. What he mostly felt at that moment was numb and exhausted.
"I suppose that will have to do," Granger sighed. "There was a body," she added in a tight voice. Her gaze flickered to the ground.
Snape recognised guilt when he saw it, and blamed it on idiotic Gryffindor chivalry. "Perhaps you'd prefer it if he'd survived?"
Granger's eyes met his, with a force that was almost physical in its resolution. It was not an expression Snape wanted to see from the wrong end of a wand. "No," she said, and the word did not need to be loud. Then the palpable sense of purpose faded. She looked away again uncertainly, before collecting herself. "Are you coming or not," she snapped.
"Acid enough, but lacks the recent biting wit." Snape eased his weight onto his legs, testing the healed break in his thigh.
"How original, Professor," Granger said dryly, then cringed as a moan of pleasure filtered through the curtains around Potter's bed. "Let's get out of here."
Snape allowed himself a humourless chuckle. If Granger had ever been a member of the Cult of Harry Potter then the shine had worn off long ago; and he rather thought that her attachment to the Boy Who Irritated came despite his fame, not because of it. Despite the name, and the uncomplimentary comments that Potter and Weasley had flung her way during their early acquaintance, and her undisguised frustration with their cavalier attitudes and lack of appreciation for scholarly pursuits. Granger clearly had greater reserves of patience and tolerance than Snape had himself.
Those reserves seemed to have been depleted. She was tapping her foot as she waited for him to make a move. He toyed with the childish urge to keep her waiting purely to annoy her further, but another moan from the next bed was sufficient to motivate him towards the door. He stopped with one hand on the door handle, telling himself that he wasn't using it to keep himself upright and wondering a little dizzily why Granger hadn't followed.
She gave him a long look up and down, eyebrows raising slowly, smiling slightly. Snape glanced down. His lips thinned, and he scowled, trying to achieve in a baggy white hospital gown the effect he achieved so effortlessly when clad in billowing black robes. "I fail to see what you find so amusing, Miss Granger."
He waited for the comeback that he knew Granger was capable of, but she simply shook her head. "It's probably hysteria," she said and came over to him, holding out an arm draped with deep green silk. "Madam Pomfrey had your dressing gown brought over from your rooms. You'd better wear it. If any of the First Years see you like that they'll have a fit."
Snape felt absurdly grateful for the garment, and covered the fact with a sneer. "After having survived Voldemort's best efforts, Miss Granger?"
To Snape's immense surprise, Granger grinned at him. "After having survived your Potions lessons I doubt any of the youngsters found their part of the fighting to be that terrifying. But Professor Snape in white? That really would mean the end of the world."
"If they are truly that frail of spirit then they obviously need further toughening up." Snape ungraciously pulled his dressing gown from Granger's arm, and started the uncomfortable process of putting it on while remaining upright and causing the least possible aggravation to his injuries.
Granger failed to look offended at the lack of thanks. "You're going to deprive them of the opportunity by dressing anyway? How selfish of you, Professor."
Snape regarded her darkly. "I'm sure I can find a sufficiently disconcerting alternative, Miss Granger. Perhaps I could try being nice to one of them."
There was a twist to the corner of Granger's lips that was positively devious. "That would be cruel! They're paranoid enough as it is. Anyway, would you know how?" she added dubiously.
"I'm sure I could find something positive about the little idiots, if I had to. A few of them have mastered the undervalued art of keeping their mouths shut, for example." Snape drew out the last words into a drawl, eyeing Granger significantly.
"Well, that's one compliment you could try," she responded, choosing to remain oblivious to his suggestion. "Although it's too much like an insult to really unnerve them. It would have to be something completely out of character."
Snape blinked. Granger was playing games, and he couldn't work out what exactly she was up to. He really wasn't at his best, he privately admitted, when he found a Gryffindor's schemes to be anything but crystal clear. "To be properly unbalancing it would also have to be true," he pointed out, sticking to the obvious line of conversation in the hope of uncovering the underlying motivation for it.
"I suppose it would," Granger said, "if your put-downs are anything to go by."
Snape waved away the obvious with an impatient hand gesture. Of course the unsympathetic criticism of genuine faults had more bite to them. Insults that were obviously unfair merely invited anger, or tears, along with a nice side-order of self-righteousness. Genuine criticism forced deliberate denial, active acceptance or change. The effects of praise were far harder to control. "Your talent for stating the obvious is truly breathtaking, Miss Granger."
Granger gave him a scathing look. "Did you know you have a wonderful voice, Professor?"
Snape paused for the follow up, and felt obscurely wrong-footed when none was forthcoming.
Granger was watching him with glee. "See?"
Snape set his jaw and narrowed his eyes. He would not be outsmarted by a student, let alone a Gryffindor. Unfortunately he was still unsure what the rules of this game were, and had the nasty feeling that however he played he was automatically on the losing side. "You have a particularly fascinating personal library, Miss Granger."
"I do?" Granger was still enjoying herself.
"Oh yes. Very... parchmenty. And..." He leaned in, and lowered his voice to a silken murmur. If he couldn't guess the rules, he'd start a game of his own. "...brown."
Granger made a tiny choking sound that could have been nervousness, but the dancing light in her eyes meant it was more likely to be a giggle. "I'm sure you can do better than that, Professor. Has anyone ever told you that you have beautiful hands?"
Snape coughed, unnerved yet again. "Has anyone ever mentioned your feet, Miss Granger?"
Granger gave him an odd look. "Mentioned my feet?"
Snape nodded slowly. "Your feet, Miss Granger." He leaned closer still. "You have two of them." Granger couldn't hide her giggle that time. Snape bent to whisper right into her ear. "And they both touch the ground."
Granger pulled away enough to turn her head and stare at him. Then she burst out laughing. Snape regarded her in sardonic amusement. "Your talent for stating the obvious is truly breathtaking, Professor Snape." She shook her head, still chuckling. Snape found himself involuntarily responding in kind. "Okay, I'll let you off," Granger spluttered. "You don't have to be nice to the First Years."
The curtain about Potter's bed was twitched aside in response to the laughter. Two heads peeped through, flushed and startled. The surprise amplified into utter bemusement at the sight of the dreaded Potions Master smiling and Hermione Granger giggling to the point of tears. Potter's mouth dropped open, then flapped shut again.
"Hermione?" Potter asked, shocked. He looked between Snape and Granger, as if trying to take it in but finding it too much.
The uncharacteristic mirth dropped from Snape's features, frown lines settling back into place, deepening as his brows lowered and his lips twisted downwards. "Though it pains me to admit as much, Miss Granger, you were right. It must be hysteria. If you must inflict me with your inconsequential questions you can do so in the potions classroom, while putting your idle hands and empty head to performing some useful work for a change." He swept through the door, managing to get a swirl from his silken dressing-gown.
A few moments later the door banged behind him, and Granger's running footsteps caught him up. "My compliments on the exit, Professor. Very dramatic. Nice recovery. But you've used that 'empty head' insult at least ten times now, and 'idle hands'? Not exactly original. They're like the minor analgesic potions- after a while, they lose their effectiveness. Or is that the idea? Building up tolerance and immunity?"
"No." Snape did not bother to slow his pace to suit Granger's shorter legs, his dressing gown flapping with the speed of his stride. "I simply enjoy humiliating people."
Granger lapsed into an unnervingly thoughtful silence that was less irritating but more worrying than her garrulousness of a moment before. "Okay," she said after a while.
Snape stopped at the door to the Potions laboratory, and swung to face her. "Okay?" He imbued the word with all the contempt and disbelief he could muster. "That is all you have to say?"
Granger merely folded her arms and smiled up at him. "I think there was some work to get on with, Professor Snape sir?"
Snape studied her for a moment, reading her face, and had to fight not to shudder. Hermione Granger liked nothing better than a mental challenge, and he'd come to the sudden and awful realisation that he was her current project.
******
Zebee, iejasu and pigwidgeon37, thank you very much for your comments! Reassuring to know that someone out there read the first chapter, and it was nice to know which bits in particular caught the attention. I hope you enjoy this chapter too. :)