Title: Looking for Magic in All the Right Places

Chapter Five: Acid and Digestion

Genre: Humour, Romance, and my response to the WIKTT 'Summer School Challenge.' To see complete rules, go to 'When I Kissed the Teacher' Files Challenge Files, (Closed Challenges).

Rating: PG-13

Warning: Occasional poetry!

Disclaimer: Please see Chapter One. Some chapters have Author's Notes for acknowledgements when needed.

Chapter Five: Acid and Digestion

Alone in Snape's lab, Hermione chewed her lower lip anxiously. Maybe she shouldn't have chosen Veritaserum for her first analysis. It was probably a little too ambitious. But some vials Snape had made up as part of the arsenal of the Battle against Voldemort were readily available, and he'd given her permission to work with them.

The algebraic calculations involved in quantitative analysis would be a piece of cake after Arithmancy. But, while Snape's potion-making equipment was state-of-the-art, to say he had even the rudiments of a proper chemical lab was--well--generous. Hermione could do algebra till she dropped dead, but if she couldn't show some familiarity with lab-based analytical methods, the Cambridge Honours programme would be an impossible goal.

And speaking of the impossible, Hogwarts had no computer. No electricity either.

Far from fast-tracking into Cambridge, it was increasingly likely that she'd have to spend a year or two at some polytechnic. . . taking qualifying courses.

Gods. What a decline and fall.

Hermione eventually forced herself through the motions of doing an acid-based analysis of the Veritaserum. The results were as unexciting as she'd feared. She was writing up her report when the door between Snape's classroom and the lab opened with a bang. Snape swept in, his robes swirling, creating a breeze that made parchments fly up into her face.

That was the absolute dizzy limit. Hermione fixed her professor with a poisonous look.

'Do you realise that raising a draught like that could have ruined my analysis?' she snapped.

Snape stopped dead, staring at Hermione in disbelief.

'Not that it would matter if it were ruined,' she muttered, turning back to her parchment. 'It's all bollocks anyway.'

'I take it,' said Snape, his voice very low, 'that your work is not going well.'

Hermione sighed and turned to look at him, wearily pushing loose tendrils of hair back from her face. 'If I'm lucky, I'll master a few rudiments. But I won't be able to blunder around a real lab'--she accented those words with a sarcasm worthy of Snape--'without making an idiot of myself. There's so much more I need to know, and so much I can't possibly hope to learn in this--ruined pile of a school!'

To her horror, her throat thickened with tears and her vision blurred. She took a deep, shaky breath and turned back toward her table, willing herself to stay calm, telling herself she'd rather die than show Snape how close to hysteria she was.

'I'm sorry if I was disrespectful, Professor,' she managed. 'I'll keep trying. That's all I can promise.'

She felt him move behind her and closed her eyes. Her lashes were wet. She waited for the deadly barb, the cold remark, that she knew was coming.

Then she felt his hands rest lightly on her shoulders. Her eyes flew open. Her whole body tensed.

'Miss Granger.' The voice was gentle as silk, dark as night. 'I owe you an apology. I had no intention of pushing you into doing the impossible. I've neglected my responsibility of providing support, and have taken your hard work for granted. It won't happen again. That's my promise.'

She sat and simply breathed, not believing what she was hearing.

He removed his hands from her shoulders, leaving a strange warmth where they had rested. He moved so he was standing close beside her. She dared to look at him. He was bending to look at her report, his black hair falling around his sharp-nosed face. He nodded, then looked at her, and for the first time she boldly met his unblinking gaze.

'I wish I could arrange for an entire gas chromatography/mass spectrometry suite, but we'll have to settle for a common flame ionisation detector. Even that won't be new, but it should at least be functional.'

'It will help,' said Hermione, a bit shakily. She couldn't stop looking at him.

Then Snape straightened. 'Now, Miss Granger, please go and get some rest.'

As she took the now rather hazardous route back to Gryffindor Tower, Hermione admitted to herself that yes, she'd had a growing obsession since summer school began about Snape's extraordinarily disturbing dark gaze. But never had she imagined that the words she'd hear from his lips during their first moment of prolonged eye-contact would be 'flame ionisation detector, gas chromatography, and mass spectrometry.'

She found herself smiling for the first time in weeks.

==============

'Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've seen of wrath and ire
I hold with those who favour fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of fate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.'

'That's really good, Nev!' said Harry, while Ron clapped loudly to help cover the sound of Draco's snort of laughter.

'An excellent effort, Mr. Longbottom,' said McCourt. 'The deceptively simple, almost clichéd language hints at a considerable depth of irony.'

'Er--really? I mean, thanks,' said Neville, blushing. 'I just liked the contrasts.'

'I think,' said Lupin, 'that you've all made notable progress over the past weeks. Wouldn't you agree, Professor Snape?'

Snape, sitting in his usual place, his arms folded, smirked. 'The students have managed to create some remarkably entertaining pieces.'

'Shall I convey our idea to the Headmaster?'

'If you're willing to climb that staircase to tell him,' said Snape.

'You're going to ask him if we can have our slam?' Padma said eagerly.

'I think everyone's ready for a challenge,' said Jones, smiling.

==============

A few days later, Dumbledore announced that the deteriorating Great Hall would be closed off. Part of the kitchen had been cleared so tables could be set up for meals. 'Otherwise, our house-elves will simply be unable to cope,' said the Headmaster sadly.

'Maybe now the food won't be cold,' said Ron, as he and Harry joined the faculty and the other seventh-years down to breakfast. As everyone piled into the kitchen, causing the house-elves to scurry around in a panic, there was an interesting moment of realising that there were only three large tables to be shared by students in all four Houses as well as senior faculty and Muggle guests. Dumbledore looked on patiently as people milled around, deciding with whom to sit. Parvati and Lavender, of course, made a bee-line for Beckham, trapping him between them. Draco and the Slytherins closed ranks, staking out the end-section of another table. Most of the faculty, as often happens in these situations, clustered together for protection against the students.

Harry and Ron moved too slowly to have first choice of seating. The only spaces available were at the same table as the Slytherins, but fortunately near the opposite end. 'Oh, hell,' Harry grumbled.

'Puts you in a good position to slam Draco again if you feel like it,' said Ron cheerfully. Harry grinned back.

'Hey, where's 'Mione?' said Ron. Harry poked him in the ribs and pointed. Hermione, just coming into the kitchen, was talking with Sean McCourt. The storyteller said something, smiling, and she laughed.

'Mione!' Ron waved. She spotted him, waved back, and came over to them.

Snape, meanwhile, hadn't seated himself yet; he and Lupin had been engaged in an intense conversation. By the pinched look of his mouth, Hermione guessed something hadn't pleased him.

Lupin claimed the last empty seat within the faculty cluster, beside Maxine Jones, favouring her with a big smile.

The only other obviously empty seat was beside Hermione, at the end of the table.

'Oh bugger,' Ron hissed in her ear as Snape approached. 'So much for being able to digest breakfast.'

Snape seated himself, ignoring the mere students. As if he'd sent a signal, house-elves approached the tables with large steaming dishes. Ron's eyes bugged as appetising heaps of sausage, mounds of scrambled eggs, fried tomatoes, and fresh pastries with honey were deposited. Elves with carafes poured hot coffee. Everyone dug in.

'Why's the food so good all of a sudden?' said Harry, through a mouthful of croissant.

'Mr. McCourt,' Hermione paused to sip her coffee. 'He once worked as a cook to support his writing. He came down here early this morning and helped the elves with the menu.'

'Helped?' snorted Harry. 'More like whipped them into shape. This is great.'

'I don't mind Muggle cooking,' said Ron. 'Kind of a novelty.'

'I'm afraid the novelty is bound to wear off very soon, Mr. Weasley,' said Snape. 'This is our future.' He stared bleakly into his now-empty mug, which a house-elf hastily refilled.

'Well,' said Hermione, 'If the future means coffee this good, I think I can live with it.'

'Hmm.' Harry looked at her with interest. 'You seem rather chuffed about something, 'Mione. What gives?'

Hermione did not let herself catch Snape's eye. She just smiled.

Fortunately, Dumbledore chose this moment to stand and gently rap a spoon against his mug. 'May I have everyone's attention?' The buzz of conversation gradually subsided.

'Time for the big announcement . . .' murmured Ron.

'I have the pleasure to announce that in lieu of a final exam, the last week of Professor Lupin's Defence Against the Dark Arts class will feature two open sessions for all summer school students. Students and faculty will engage in duelling--using poetry as their weapon and their defence.'

Low murmuring broke out and swelled to a crescendo. Dumbledore smiled benignly before raising his hand, commanding silence.

'Our literary guests, Doctor Jones and Mr. McCourt, inform me that the Muggle practice of pitting poets against each other to judge their skill is called a "poetry slam."'

Padma smirked, and Dean smiled at her fondly.

'For our own end-of-summer school "slam," duellists will compete for two prizes--the best poetic weapon and the best poetic defence. Mr. McCourt and Doctor Jones will act as judges.'

Padma raised her hand. 'What are the prizes?'

'Ah,' said Dumbledore, 'I don't want to say just yet.'

'Probably some ghastly old books,' muttered Lavender.

Dumbledore added, with a ghost of the old mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes, 'And, since our faculty are also new at poetry, any who choose are eligible to compete as well, on equal ground with students. That should make things even more interesting.'

This time Dumbledore had to wait patiently as lively conversation rippled up and down the tables. Hermione risked a look at Snape. He was leaning back in his chair, long hands steepled together, frowning. Now what's bothering him? she wondered.

'One more detail,' the Headmaster said at length, after relative quiet had resumed. 'Duelling partners will be selected randomly, by lottery.' He held up a battered looking green gym bag. 'I've already placed the names of all DADA students in here. I now invite interested faculty to add your names.'

Lupin rose to his feet, took the small piece of parchment and quill pen Dumbledore offered him, wrote on it, and popped it insouciantly into the gym bag. The Patil twins grinned at each other and applauded softly.

Lavender nudged Beckham and rolled her eyes in a 'Go on, do it' gesture. Smiling sheepishly, the former football star shook his head.

After a moment, McGonagall stood up, looked coolly around the room over the tops of her square glasses, and entered her name.

Dumbledore looked at Snape. So did Hermione.

Shifting in his chair, the Head of Slytherin said, 'Apparently my name has already been entered, Headmaster.' Lupin grinned.

'Any others?' said Dumbledore. No one stirred. 'Then,' he said, 'I'd like to ask Mr. McCourt and Doctor Jones to draw names.'

Jones wrinkled her nose just ever so slightly as she extended a graceful hand into the grubby bag.

About halfway through the drawing of names, McCourt drew Draco's parchment, and Jones drew Hermione's. Unable to resist glancing down at the other end of the table, Hermione saw Draco's mouth twisting in an unpleasant smile. 'You're dead, Mudblood,' he mouthed to her silently.

'Wanker,' she mouthed back, smirking.

Hermione wondered afterward whether some surviving thread of malicious magic wove its way through the room at the moment one of the last pairs of parchments was drawn.

McCourt picked Severus Snape.

And Jones picked Harry Potter.

Author's Notes:

--I'm not a chemist (duh!)! So I'm winging this one. I do know that even if 'gas chromatography/mass spectrometry (GC/MS)' is the most powerful analytical technique, there is no way Hogwarts could possibly afford that kind of equipment. I'm not even sure how Snape would get an FID to work without electricity. Oh, well . . . poetic license!

--Neville's poem is 'Fire and Ice' by the American poet Robert Frost (1874 - 1963), with only a few words changed.