Sleep proved to be an impossible achievment. No matter how many times I turned, fluffed pillows, tried counting gnomes, or even my most favorite remedy, imagine Potter being bucked from his broom in quidditch, failed to alleviate my problem.
I must have dozed off, eventually, for a frightened squeaking is what roused me. I rubbed my eyes, confused, and sat up, and almost immediately fell out of bed. A house elf stood there, shaking with fright, frantically screeching my name, meanwhile, sobbing into what appeared to be a disgusting pair of boxers. I wrinkled my nose. I never had much of a liking for the creatures, and even less when I heard that Hermione Granger was campaigning on their behalf.
What do you want, I snapped at it. Its hideously enormous eyes began filling with cloudy tears, Oh sir, Minnie didn't want to be no nuisance, sir. She is calling you and calling you, but you never waked up. Oooooh!!. The ugly thing broke into another wail and began to ferociously beat its head against one of my bookcases. Stop it, stop it, I shouted over the din of its self abuse. It halted immediately, and looked up fearfully. What time is it?, I asked softly, knowing a harsh voice would spur another useless outburst. Nine thirty, sir, it said, shivering again.
I rolled my eyes back up into my head. Good gods, that means my first class would have been cancelled. Why didn't you tell me it was nine thirty, elf? Is it your job to stand around and make an obstacle of yourself?!, I roared, not caring if I made the thing cry again. It nodded and wordlessly evaporated into the air.
I leapt out of bed, tugging on my robes, running fingers through my hair, grabbing notes, quills, and eventually, my self composure. I flew out of my rooms, running at a surprisingly quick pace towards my dungeons. From the way the doors were ajar, I gathered that my class had already taken it upon itself to leave. Unfortunately for them, it only meant a grevious amount of points taken off from each offending house.
I strode into the classroom, preparing to meticulously lay out my work upon my desk, until I noticed that it contained another occupant. Granger sat there, furiously scribbling something over parchment, awkwardly reminding me of her overly eager to please self as a teenager. So engrossed was she, that even when I cleared my throat, she failed to look up.
I smirked, and attempted again, Miss Granger, what in Merlin's name do you think you're doing at my desk? Stealing more potions ingredients, glancing at grades, trying to figure out my secret of staying alive after death? Fifty points, Granger, for being places that you shouldn't. She jumped when she heard my voice, and quickly began to gather her things in her satchel, stammering excuses, I'm sorry Professor, you weren't here this morning...I didn't know what to do....I.... She stopped suddenly, and gave me a very hard stare, crossing her arms, and biting her lip. Her bushy hair looked oddly tamed, but not unpleasantly straight or greasy. Very amusing, Professor. Perhaps your secret to a long life is a daily indulgence in sadism, she snapped, I did you an enormous favor by teaching classes this morning when you didn't show up. I hardly think that you would appreciate Remus Lupin teaching the exact art of potions class. I frowned at her. It was useless, trying to argue with this girl, she always found ways to be the victor.
She looked at me curiously, Where were you, Severus? You would be the last person I'd expect to miss a class. On a first name basis then, are we? Very well, *Hermione*, if you must know, I got some much needed rest, and if those torpid house elves bloody well knew how to wake someone up, I would have been on time and saved you the trouble, I said scathingly, enjoying the red flush that erupted in her face.
No need Professor. I am highly sure that the students appreciated a change of pace from their old frigid professor constantly breathing down their necks all the time, and whispering subversive comments, she replied quickly, her tone highly acidic. She began walking away from me, her shapely calves encased in a becoming pair of muggle-produced high heels.
By the way, Professor, just so you aren't completely shocked, I took twenty points from Slytherin this morning. I doubt Mariah Tooksbury will ever have a potions class that was so kind to her again, she said quietly, her usually soft brown eyes burning with an emotion I couldn't detect. Perhaps it was recognition in the child of herself, or simply, lust for revenge and reprieve, but it added an attractive, if not Amazon-esque quality to her.
Neither of us spoke, but stood glaring fiercely at each other. I have no doubt that she harbored several homicidal fantasies about me, but I was even angrier because I had no idea what to think of her. Surely, this self confident, cooly elusive woman was not the same Hermione Granger? But, even as I thought this, I saw certain slips, old character traits that were a dead giveaway.
You may leave, Miss Granger, I said wearily. I had no wish to fight or be in the same room with her any longer. Professor Granger, she snapped,and just because you see a younger version of myself in Mariah Tooksbury, does not give you license to belittle or intimidate her.
If you're criticising me, Professor, that would be like that oh-so-famous muggle saying which I am sure you are aqquainted with: that's the pot calling the kettle black. You detest Slytherin merely because I am head of house. How different are we, then?, I asked calmly, folding my arms.
Oh, don't be so self absorbed professor, she said shrilly, her voice rising in anger, perhaps I hate Slytherins because they all have a tendency to be smarmy, snarky, vicious bastards. Each and every one. And to have a total egotistical maniac as head of house has hardly improved their standing.
I advanved on her, giving up my approach of being calm and collected. She was too angry to be frightened, however, and kept going. I always thought you were nicer beneath you appearance, Snape. I always defended you. I always stood up, proclaiming you a genius, brilliant, whatever. I always thought that your coldness and brutality were a defense mechanism, that the things that streamed out of your mouth were partically because you couldn't help saying them, and partially because you weren't used to censoring your thoughts. I used to believe that you weren't as bad as you acted, but now I know that my beliefs and inclinations were completely misguided. That you are as you seem, and so completely ordinary at that. I know dozens like you, Snape, and they're just as spiteful. I hope you die a miserable, lonely death you smug son of a bitch, she practically shouted. She was also sobbing as she spoke this, her arms flailing widlly as if she were drowning.
I stared at her, not knowing whether to slap her or poison her or even admit defeat. I had no desire to verify exactly how many of those painfully blunt points were correct, and how it took her a matter of seconds to deystroy the shields that I had spent so many years constructing. She did not look apologetic, nor did she appear triumphant. She looked weaker, vulnerable, childlike.
She turned away from me, her shoulders heaving with heavily muffled cries. I was still left standing, glancing wildly in every direction, for once, not knowing where to turn.




A/N: Kinda getting soapy, I know, but I wanted Hermione to explode. It's kind of been culminating, so I was glad to finally write this. I hope you enjoyed reading it. Thanks for reviews, critiques, the like.