Author's Notes: I'm not really sure what made me start this story. I've been reading a lot of SS/HG fics lately, and I guess this just popped out. If any of you like it enough for me to continue, or if you have any suggestions, please let me know through review or email. It will be greatly appreciated. And I apologize for any stream-of-consciousness or jumps in this chapter... this is un-betaed, and I honestly haven't even re-read it myself. Forgive any mistakes.

Disclaimer: The characters of this story are the intellectual property of the great author J. K. Rowling. I am merely borrowing their personalities for a bit of fun.

Frustrated Author's Note: Because my laptop is being really horrid right now, I'm afraid that the asteriks * will denote italics. Hopefully this will be temporary.

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Hate.

Hate was one of the emotions that coursed through his blood whenever he thought of Hermione Granger. Pure, unadulterated loathing for the Gryffindor Know-it-All, who dared to surpass his *years* of training and studying and laboring in the first two years she had been involved with the wizarding world. Scorn for the mere slip of a girl who managed to pilfer ingredients from *his* supplies, so that she might engage in illicit brewing in a bathroom. And then, after all that, she managed to bungle the last step and transform into a human Mrs. Norris. It was an insult, to say the least.

Although, if he were honest with himself, the hate was sandwiched between a tiny bit of envy and an even smaller dose of pride.

After all, he was sure it was *he* who had taught her proper brewing techniques. It was *his* motions that she'd observed and copied.

But it was simply 12-year-old Hermione Granger and her superior intellect that managed, in one attempt, to make the potion that had nearly bungled his first year of apprenticeship. And for that, he could hate.

He marveled along with the rest of his colleagues how a Muggleborn with no prior knowledge of their world's existence could suddenly show up even the purest of those bred to achieve.

He snubbed her whenever he could, ignoring her in class when he wasn't making snide remarks about her House, her brain, her teeth. But there were times, when all heads were bent over an in-class writing assignment, he'd observe her. Her slim fingers wrapped around the finest of quills, flying across the parchment, her face plainly stating that she knew what she was writing about. Sometimes, when her eyes lit up with excitement over whatever the subject of the text, he would almost let his mind smile; appreciation for higher knowledge was rare inside the Potions classroom. But then he would remember her name or her House, and the spell would be broken.

However, over the years, he watched his students grow up. It wasn't that he particularly watched *her*, but he couldn't help noticing how cooperative she'd become in class. She learned to adjust to his various moods and knew how to pacify his ire when it was directed at her; when he realized this, he'd become furious with himself after the fact. Children were not supposed to escape his sarcasm or his anger unscathed. But then he made another realization: she wasn't a child anymore. Her peers, Gryffindor or Slytherin or any of the other two, certainly hadn't matured. But none of them observed the world around them. Or, if they did, they certainly didn't know how to handle what they saw. But this girl handled the people surrounding her with more grace than he would have credited to a Gryffindor.

That irritated him, and one day he snapped. She'd tried to pacify him yet again, but her attempt had only fanned his fury. He ranted and raved as he hadn't in years, berating and insulting her until all the Gryffindor males had jumped to their feet and all the Slytherins had stopped grinning. He swooped over to her table, glared and sneered and jeered until she turned as red as a Weasley. His mind was frantic, trying to say anything that would break her, revert her back to the crying, friendless child she had once been.

All the while, she continued to meet his angry gaze. He could see tears forming, but no matter the words that came from his mouth, they never fell. Finally, in the middle of his tirade, she stood and calmly walked out the classroom.

She never did come back.

Albus censured him and relegated him to an unofficial sabbatical. His classes were temporarily shared between Madam Pomfrey and Professor Sinistra, both of whom had a sufficient background in Potions.

He'd been sent to Beauxbatons as a visiting scholar, where he observed and guested in Potions and Defense classes. During the beginning of his "vacation," he'd been murderous in his thoughts to Miss Granger. He imagined all sorts of gossip flying around about him: *He's gone mad, can't handle the pressure of a student more intelligent than he is... A Potions Master, bested by a teenage girl!... The poor girl, putting up with abuse like that.*

Then he became tired. Maybe Albus was right, maybe he needed a break from the pressures and the confines of Hogwarts. Maybe his dislike for Miss Granger was only the result of a stifled life, surrounded by idiots.

Finally, he relaxed and rejuvenated. He'd been in France for six months; during his absence, Voldemort was finally killed off, the Ministry had purged itself of many corrupt officials, Longbottom passed Potions, and the whole infernal class graduated. When he returned for the next term, he was noticeably more pleasant, except for those instances that the graduated class was mentioned.

*He's not as snarky now... It really must have been Potter, Granger, and Longbottom that made him so nasty.* The student body learned not to mention the second of those names around their Potions Master, until finally the years had gone by so that none of them had been at school with that girl.

It was eight years before he was again forced to acknowledge the existence of Hermione Granger. And that was only when she waltzed right into his classroom.

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