Chpt19: Seven Hours and Fifteen Days.
"Severus?"
Something was tickling him, gently, yet insistently trying to wake him.
".Severus.. Severus, wake up." He rolled over, swatting lightly as she source of the voice blew softly into his ear.
"Wake up, Severus, look, it's morning!"
He grunted, screwing his face up, pushing the new day away for a few more precious moments until her lips reached down to his own.
"Good morning, Heather," his voice grated out roughly, thick with the remnants of sleep.
"It's always a good morning when you're here!" she winked mischievously, and he rolled onto his side, threading his hands through her hair as he stared into her chocolate-brown eyes. He smiled, spotting the traces of amber and green that always flitted about in the depth of her gaze, creating the mirage of colour that was hers and hers alone.
"You're amazing, you know that?"
~*~*~*~
"Your potions are coming along well." He glanced around the room, taking in the texture of each potion, as a king would survey the fruits of his realm as they are laid before him.
He paused.
"Patil, this rendition of the word 'viscous' is highly original," the class looked on in silence as his lips curled in a malicious smirk, "I suggest that you discontinue your over-eager stirring and stick to the necessary rhythm. Five points will be deducted for your error."
Blatant grins were met by smothered groans, and Snape returned to his podium.
"You may all be extraordinary wand-handlers," a cynical eyebrow arched upwards as he continued, "but in this classroom, attention to detail is essential. You do not simply throw any and every ingredient fathomable into your cauldrons, you weigh, you measure, you insure that you follow the correct instructions, and if in doubt, you do not improvise!"
Carefully lifting a small jar into view, he unscrewed it and poured its contents onto his palm.
"This," he paused, "is powdered catstail, an ingredient that is vital to many potions. Patil, bring a ladleful of your solution here."
Warily, Parvati dipped a ladle into her cauldron, and poured its contents into a small bowl before proceeding to take it to the front of the classroom.
Once she had taken her seat again, Snape continued to talk, and knowing what would come, Hermione eagerly leaned forward to listen.
The lesson had been a strenuous one, as the whole class had been set to stirring, chopping, replenishing, and she had barely been able to brood on her situation. She had simply noted the occasional presence behind her, or to a side as he drifted by to inspect the brew.
Carefully, Snape took a brittle glass dropper out from one of the many drawers in his desk, and took a tiny amount of potion out of the bowl, placing it into the centre of a ceramic tile.
Then, with a reverent touch, he took some of the powdered catstail and sprinkled it over the droplet. Immediately, the mixture sparked, and flared up in a mighty red flame that licked the ceiling, scorching it into a deeper black.
"Had this been more than a single drop of Miss Patil's potion, the entire dungeon floor would have been incinerated, and so therefore would all the floors above. Now, Malfoy, bring yours."
Smugly, Draco Malfoy rose from his seat, taking a bowlful of his own potion, and swaggering his way towards the front of the classroom.
"Thank-you, Mr Malfoy," Snape said, and the boy returned to his seat.
Repeating the procedure with the pipette and a fresh tile, Snape continued to talk.
"When brewed correctly, the base for a successful Polyjuice Potion should react in a less. dramatic style to the way that Miss Patil's potion reacted. Now," he paused, his face impassively contrasting with the excited spark in his eyes. surely this was a man that loved the art of potion- making.
"Watch, and learn."
He put the tiny droplet onto the tile, and mesmerised, Hermione watched as he expertly sprinkled the powdered catstail over the mixture.
Immediately, the droplet expanded to the size of a tennis ball and rose into the air, hovering several feet above the desk before it burst into a mirage of light and colour that filled the whole dungeon.
Snape let the reaction continue for a moment, before finally muttering an exasperated "Enough!" and waving his wand towards the source of the outburst.
"Now, if any of you want to continue to make an extremely dangerous and volatile mixture, I assure you, please, continue - I will simply warn you that if you do, I will be forced to make you drink the said mixture. The reaction between the Aequivocare and the powdered catstail must indeed be very intriguing once they have both been consumed."
From the corner of her eye, Hermione saw several people glancing nervously at the contents of their cauldrons, and smiled. Somehow, she recognised the slight tone that differentiated what, to Snape, was a genuine threat, and what was simply intrinsic to his own form of dry humour.
Her body quivered reflexively at the intimate knowledge that she had acquired of his personal traits and habits, and she hurried to smother it.
~*~*~*~
That lunchtime, Hermione hurried back to her dorm.
Tomorrow was Saturday - Hogsmeade day.
It was clear that she still longed to go to him. but.
She shook her head.
She didn't want to hurt anymore, she didn't want to fight, to lie, to always have to hide from him and hope beyond dreams that.
No. No, and twice over, no!
But deep inside, the answer was clear.
Yes, with all her heart and soul and with every part of her very being, the answer was yes. In her heart of hearts, Hermione simply longed that he should somehow discover her.
She closed her eyes and thought of the scene: He would look down at her, his eyes wide as he realised who she was, and the anger would flare up there as she stopped breathing in fear.
Then he would frown and open his mouth wordlessly, all words forgotten, and she would try to apologise, mumbling something along the lines of "I.erm.look.".
Hermione inhaled deeply, opening her eyes to find that she was alone in her rooms. When had her imagination become so vivid? She had clearly envisioned his lithe form, and had expected it to still be there.
When had she begun to fool herself that any such thing was possible?
Severus Snape would never love her, would never sit her on a Cumulonimbus (her favourite broomstick by far - but don't tell Harry) and fly off with her into the sunset.
He would never understand that somehow, she had to let it happen, even though she had never expected it to.
Perhaps she should go tomorrow.
Perhaps.
Yesterday, everything had seemed so confused, one minute she had been all set to go into town, and then she had been faced by him in the hallway. The fearful possibility had suddenly appeared that he could quite possibly loathe her, and she had fled from the idea.
Doubts had reared up out of nowhere, and now she felt more alone than she had before.
Could he loathe her? Could he possibly detest her as she was, yet accept what she would be. For she would be 'Heather Gates' in five years' time, and perhaps then he would understand.
~*~*~*~
I'm too proud to lose.
This morning he had been reasonably gentle with the Gryffindor seventh years, but as the day had progressed, his mood had deteriorated, resulting in the eventual loss of about a hundred points from three of the four collective Houses.
Not that he could ever be accused of misusing his position of power.
Nonetheless, reducing a third year Ravenclaw to tears simply because she was "breathing too loudly and disturbing the silence" did not prevent Friday from becoming Saturday. How simply wonderful.
He glanced down at the sheet of parchment on his desk that he had been pretending to be trying to mark for the last hour, and finally acknowledged that, like a bird without a song, there was clearly something missing.
And the feeling unsettled him.
Like the careless indecision of a forgotten memory, he knew that somehow he was haunted by the presence that had grown in his mind; Like some dark ancestral spectre come to shake the foundations of the earth.
He groaned, threading his hands though the lank hair that fell over his eyes.
How he hated similes. Comparisons always seemed to make a situation so much worse.
"Severus?"
Something was tickling him, gently, yet insistently trying to wake him.
".Severus.. Severus, wake up." He rolled over, swatting lightly as she source of the voice blew softly into his ear.
"Wake up, Severus, look, it's morning!"
He grunted, screwing his face up, pushing the new day away for a few more precious moments until her lips reached down to his own.
"Good morning, Heather," his voice grated out roughly, thick with the remnants of sleep.
"It's always a good morning when you're here!" she winked mischievously, and he rolled onto his side, threading his hands through her hair as he stared into her chocolate-brown eyes. He smiled, spotting the traces of amber and green that always flitted about in the depth of her gaze, creating the mirage of colour that was hers and hers alone.
"You're amazing, you know that?"
~*~*~*~
"Your potions are coming along well." He glanced around the room, taking in the texture of each potion, as a king would survey the fruits of his realm as they are laid before him.
He paused.
"Patil, this rendition of the word 'viscous' is highly original," the class looked on in silence as his lips curled in a malicious smirk, "I suggest that you discontinue your over-eager stirring and stick to the necessary rhythm. Five points will be deducted for your error."
Blatant grins were met by smothered groans, and Snape returned to his podium.
"You may all be extraordinary wand-handlers," a cynical eyebrow arched upwards as he continued, "but in this classroom, attention to detail is essential. You do not simply throw any and every ingredient fathomable into your cauldrons, you weigh, you measure, you insure that you follow the correct instructions, and if in doubt, you do not improvise!"
Carefully lifting a small jar into view, he unscrewed it and poured its contents onto his palm.
"This," he paused, "is powdered catstail, an ingredient that is vital to many potions. Patil, bring a ladleful of your solution here."
Warily, Parvati dipped a ladle into her cauldron, and poured its contents into a small bowl before proceeding to take it to the front of the classroom.
Once she had taken her seat again, Snape continued to talk, and knowing what would come, Hermione eagerly leaned forward to listen.
The lesson had been a strenuous one, as the whole class had been set to stirring, chopping, replenishing, and she had barely been able to brood on her situation. She had simply noted the occasional presence behind her, or to a side as he drifted by to inspect the brew.
Carefully, Snape took a brittle glass dropper out from one of the many drawers in his desk, and took a tiny amount of potion out of the bowl, placing it into the centre of a ceramic tile.
Then, with a reverent touch, he took some of the powdered catstail and sprinkled it over the droplet. Immediately, the mixture sparked, and flared up in a mighty red flame that licked the ceiling, scorching it into a deeper black.
"Had this been more than a single drop of Miss Patil's potion, the entire dungeon floor would have been incinerated, and so therefore would all the floors above. Now, Malfoy, bring yours."
Smugly, Draco Malfoy rose from his seat, taking a bowlful of his own potion, and swaggering his way towards the front of the classroom.
"Thank-you, Mr Malfoy," Snape said, and the boy returned to his seat.
Repeating the procedure with the pipette and a fresh tile, Snape continued to talk.
"When brewed correctly, the base for a successful Polyjuice Potion should react in a less. dramatic style to the way that Miss Patil's potion reacted. Now," he paused, his face impassively contrasting with the excited spark in his eyes. surely this was a man that loved the art of potion- making.
"Watch, and learn."
He put the tiny droplet onto the tile, and mesmerised, Hermione watched as he expertly sprinkled the powdered catstail over the mixture.
Immediately, the droplet expanded to the size of a tennis ball and rose into the air, hovering several feet above the desk before it burst into a mirage of light and colour that filled the whole dungeon.
Snape let the reaction continue for a moment, before finally muttering an exasperated "Enough!" and waving his wand towards the source of the outburst.
"Now, if any of you want to continue to make an extremely dangerous and volatile mixture, I assure you, please, continue - I will simply warn you that if you do, I will be forced to make you drink the said mixture. The reaction between the Aequivocare and the powdered catstail must indeed be very intriguing once they have both been consumed."
From the corner of her eye, Hermione saw several people glancing nervously at the contents of their cauldrons, and smiled. Somehow, she recognised the slight tone that differentiated what, to Snape, was a genuine threat, and what was simply intrinsic to his own form of dry humour.
Her body quivered reflexively at the intimate knowledge that she had acquired of his personal traits and habits, and she hurried to smother it.
~*~*~*~
That lunchtime, Hermione hurried back to her dorm.
Tomorrow was Saturday - Hogsmeade day.
It was clear that she still longed to go to him. but.
She shook her head.
She didn't want to hurt anymore, she didn't want to fight, to lie, to always have to hide from him and hope beyond dreams that.
No. No, and twice over, no!
But deep inside, the answer was clear.
Yes, with all her heart and soul and with every part of her very being, the answer was yes. In her heart of hearts, Hermione simply longed that he should somehow discover her.
She closed her eyes and thought of the scene: He would look down at her, his eyes wide as he realised who she was, and the anger would flare up there as she stopped breathing in fear.
Then he would frown and open his mouth wordlessly, all words forgotten, and she would try to apologise, mumbling something along the lines of "I.erm.look.".
Hermione inhaled deeply, opening her eyes to find that she was alone in her rooms. When had her imagination become so vivid? She had clearly envisioned his lithe form, and had expected it to still be there.
When had she begun to fool herself that any such thing was possible?
Severus Snape would never love her, would never sit her on a Cumulonimbus (her favourite broomstick by far - but don't tell Harry) and fly off with her into the sunset.
He would never understand that somehow, she had to let it happen, even though she had never expected it to.
Perhaps she should go tomorrow.
Perhaps.
Yesterday, everything had seemed so confused, one minute she had been all set to go into town, and then she had been faced by him in the hallway. The fearful possibility had suddenly appeared that he could quite possibly loathe her, and she had fled from the idea.
Doubts had reared up out of nowhere, and now she felt more alone than she had before.
Could he loathe her? Could he possibly detest her as she was, yet accept what she would be. For she would be 'Heather Gates' in five years' time, and perhaps then he would understand.
~*~*~*~
I'm too proud to lose.
This morning he had been reasonably gentle with the Gryffindor seventh years, but as the day had progressed, his mood had deteriorated, resulting in the eventual loss of about a hundred points from three of the four collective Houses.
Not that he could ever be accused of misusing his position of power.
Nonetheless, reducing a third year Ravenclaw to tears simply because she was "breathing too loudly and disturbing the silence" did not prevent Friday from becoming Saturday. How simply wonderful.
He glanced down at the sheet of parchment on his desk that he had been pretending to be trying to mark for the last hour, and finally acknowledged that, like a bird without a song, there was clearly something missing.
And the feeling unsettled him.
Like the careless indecision of a forgotten memory, he knew that somehow he was haunted by the presence that had grown in his mind; Like some dark ancestral spectre come to shake the foundations of the earth.
He groaned, threading his hands though the lank hair that fell over his eyes.
How he hated similes. Comparisons always seemed to make a situation so much worse.