5.
72 hours without sleep and still counting.
The human body can only go so long without rest. Aurors, as a general rule, are well aware of physical limitations, and had been acutely aware that Hermione Granger's growing dependence on stimulants was quite dangerous. There was a brief, hurried conference and Colette, her pretty French face as perfect a mask as any actor's, slipped into Miss Granger's office, removed the empty coffee mug, filled it with decaf and tapped in two vials of white powder.
Hermione drained it and promptly fell asleep for a promised fifteen hours. Someone must have carried her home, but she had no idea who. She woke up in the middle of the night, panicky, disoriented, and alone. She had barely had time to assert that she was alone when she realized she wasn't. She gave a strangled shriek and tried to rise and fell, tangled in tightly tucked bedsheets onto unsteady knees. Her mind was still foggy from whatever well-meaning drug they'd slipped her and all she could recognize was fear and shadows.
He flicked on the light; Severus Snape, illuminated by the rather unkind electric overhead lamp of her bedroom, watching her and looking somewhat worried. (Worried on him, however, would have been deadpan, or possibly just dead, on anyone else. He was even more inscrutable as a vampire than he'd been as a Potions Master.)
Her first thought was of how stupid she was to be afraid. Her second was that he was a vampire, after all, and shouldn't she be afraid? And her third was that she couldn't stand and was still tangled in bedding, with that sticky mouthed sweaty feeling that comes of going to sleep in your clothes.
He held out a hand and she hesitated but took it; his skin was very dry and rather pleasantly cool. Together they untangled sheets and duvet, and finally Hermione was sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning against one of the posts.
Her face was gray and the rings around her eyes were grayer still, and the eyes themselves were pink. He could hear the slight wheezing as she breathed. Hell, he could hear the heartbeat, fast with panic and just a little too uneven. And it was as a Potions Master not a vampire that he noted the dizziness and discombobluation associated with sleeping potions in high concentration.
"You're running yourself ragged," he noted mildly. "I gather your coworkers were forced to drug you?"
"Do you know what's going on?" she screeched, too loud and too high. "Fudge is missing, there's Death Eaters running all over the place, nearly six of our teams are missing--that's 40 Ministry workers! Malfoy--who's most likely the center of all this, still at large! And you say I'm running myself ragged?"
"Be quiet. You're going to make yourself ill," he snapped. "More so than you already are. Looked in the mirror, would you? You're as pale as I am, and at least I have an excuse."
Hermione started laughing.
Snape was taken aback. At school, he'd never seen her do anything more than chuckle appreciatively. Now, her chest was heaving with gales of laughter, tears streaming down her face, drawing breath very unevenly and the heartbeat quickening.
Ah. Hysteria. Rather understandable under the circumstances. Intolerable, though, and probably not particularly healthy.
She bent double, and now he was uncertain whether she was laughing or crying; her body was still heaving in great, seizure-like gasps and there were tears streaming down her cheeks to spot the sheets.
Severus Snape was perfectly well aware of the traditional methods or comforting crying women: generally you held them kindly and rocked them back and forth and murmured soothing words until they came to their senses.
He didn't really have the patience.
Hermione didn't see the slap coming, but she certainly felt it. Hard enough to unbalance her, to send her reeling backwards and knock her head on the other bedpost, to make her gasp and bruise.
He had likely been holding back, or she would have a concussion. Nevertheless, it was hard, and once she'd recovered herself, she stared angrily into his pale, guiltless face.
"I rather suggest you don't force me to do that again, Miss Granger," he said.
Hermione glared at him. He looked completely unperturbed. Anger managed to oust most other emotions, which was, of course, his motive and realizing this did nothing to improve her state. Well, what were women supposed to do when they were slapped? Parvati and Lavender had watched enough soap operas for her to pick up a bit of canon. There was no handy bottles of champagne to toss in his face, so she settled for hitting him back. She struck, although not as hard as she could have. If she had truly meant to hurt him she would have turned the nails inward, a very successful tactic. No, slaps were more emotional than intended to do actual damage.
Half of her expected him to move in a blur, catching her hand and holding her immobile. But he didn't. He simply took the blow and he didn't look as if it had hurt him. At all. It brought to mind images of sci-fi movies of her youth, of aliens and robots so strong they didn't even need to bother defending themselves.
She sat for a moment in silence, trying to force her muscles to relax, her breathing to slow. What had happened to spitting, screaming, furious Snape? The cold, sneering sarcasm was still there, but the pettiness was gone and so was the temper. Calm, composed, and oh so casually cruel--even if Vampire-Snape had still been human, he would have been frightening. But what made it worse was a touch of humanity that she didn't remember Non-Vampire-Snape possessing.
"Alright," she said finally--Snape was leaning casually against the wall, and looked prepared to watch her in silence all night. "Well-rested or not, we're in a lot of trouble."
Composure faltered, and the pale face was etched with worry, making him look older. "Yes...I had no idea the roots of this went so deep...I've been warning the Headmaster for some time now--he's one of the few people who know I'm still...around...but I could only track individuals. They've recruited new members, undoubtedly."
She didn't want to say it. She didn't want to have thought of it. But it had been thought, and it had to be said. "So Voldemort is still alive...?"
He sneered. "Your faith in Potter--successful Quidditch player, I've heard, how charming--is really quite deep-rooted, isn't it?"
"Yes," she whispered, suddenly feeling stupid.
Sneers were really quite disturbing when they revealed fangs. "Oh how I haven't missed that Gryffindor capacity for drama. Yes, he's around. Weakened, to be sure, but so was Stalin, and he lasted for quite a while."
"Oh." Numb was better than crying, but not by much. "Actually, would it be a good idea to call him anyway? Harry, I mean. We haven't spoken for a while but I know he feels somewhat...er...responsible for Voldemort, and he might...help."
Snape shrugged. "If you like."
If Harry didn't bother him, then Vampire-Snape had definitely risen above what he had been as a teacher. He saw her awed expression."Oh, I still despise the boy," he added nonchalantly. "For many reasons, not all of them unbased. But, as you so mechanistically put it, he may help."
"Oh. Ok..."
"However, I rather suspect that quite a lot of this will fall on your shoulders, Miss Granger."
She looked at him, eyes widening abruptly. "Me?"
He shrugged. "Just a guess, but it seems likely." He sighed. "I'll let you know if there are any new developments that need your presence, which may very well come to pass. For now, keep on with what you're doing, and remember that Aurors are soldiers. They know, or will remember, quickly enough, what they've been trained for."
Hermione decided to place that little scrap of information in the "deal with this later" category. *Go to work. Do your job, whatever that is these days. *
*Don't think about yesterday and don't think about tomorrow.*
*There's a vampire in your bedroom who you still haven't told anybody about because for some reason you seem to trust him.*
He watched her for a moment and was, apparently, satisfied that she had recovered enough.
"It would be rather nice if we never saw one another again," he said in that perfect blend between humor and cruelty that always left her off balance. "But, alas, circumstances seem to foresee otherwise. Be careful. Oh, and get a better lock."
And he left.
Hermione stared stupidly after him for a while, then padded to the bathroom and splashed water on her face. She really was pale and sick, she realized, and the drugged sleep had done little more than make her feel tired.
She thought longingly of sleep, of waking up to find everything taken care of. Of a leisurely breakfast of cocoa and croissants and a few days break from paperwork and panic.
No. You have a job to do.
Don't worry, Granger. You can sleep when you're dead.
72 hours without sleep and still counting.
The human body can only go so long without rest. Aurors, as a general rule, are well aware of physical limitations, and had been acutely aware that Hermione Granger's growing dependence on stimulants was quite dangerous. There was a brief, hurried conference and Colette, her pretty French face as perfect a mask as any actor's, slipped into Miss Granger's office, removed the empty coffee mug, filled it with decaf and tapped in two vials of white powder.
Hermione drained it and promptly fell asleep for a promised fifteen hours. Someone must have carried her home, but she had no idea who. She woke up in the middle of the night, panicky, disoriented, and alone. She had barely had time to assert that she was alone when she realized she wasn't. She gave a strangled shriek and tried to rise and fell, tangled in tightly tucked bedsheets onto unsteady knees. Her mind was still foggy from whatever well-meaning drug they'd slipped her and all she could recognize was fear and shadows.
He flicked on the light; Severus Snape, illuminated by the rather unkind electric overhead lamp of her bedroom, watching her and looking somewhat worried. (Worried on him, however, would have been deadpan, or possibly just dead, on anyone else. He was even more inscrutable as a vampire than he'd been as a Potions Master.)
Her first thought was of how stupid she was to be afraid. Her second was that he was a vampire, after all, and shouldn't she be afraid? And her third was that she couldn't stand and was still tangled in bedding, with that sticky mouthed sweaty feeling that comes of going to sleep in your clothes.
He held out a hand and she hesitated but took it; his skin was very dry and rather pleasantly cool. Together they untangled sheets and duvet, and finally Hermione was sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning against one of the posts.
Her face was gray and the rings around her eyes were grayer still, and the eyes themselves were pink. He could hear the slight wheezing as she breathed. Hell, he could hear the heartbeat, fast with panic and just a little too uneven. And it was as a Potions Master not a vampire that he noted the dizziness and discombobluation associated with sleeping potions in high concentration.
"You're running yourself ragged," he noted mildly. "I gather your coworkers were forced to drug you?"
"Do you know what's going on?" she screeched, too loud and too high. "Fudge is missing, there's Death Eaters running all over the place, nearly six of our teams are missing--that's 40 Ministry workers! Malfoy--who's most likely the center of all this, still at large! And you say I'm running myself ragged?"
"Be quiet. You're going to make yourself ill," he snapped. "More so than you already are. Looked in the mirror, would you? You're as pale as I am, and at least I have an excuse."
Hermione started laughing.
Snape was taken aback. At school, he'd never seen her do anything more than chuckle appreciatively. Now, her chest was heaving with gales of laughter, tears streaming down her face, drawing breath very unevenly and the heartbeat quickening.
Ah. Hysteria. Rather understandable under the circumstances. Intolerable, though, and probably not particularly healthy.
She bent double, and now he was uncertain whether she was laughing or crying; her body was still heaving in great, seizure-like gasps and there were tears streaming down her cheeks to spot the sheets.
Severus Snape was perfectly well aware of the traditional methods or comforting crying women: generally you held them kindly and rocked them back and forth and murmured soothing words until they came to their senses.
He didn't really have the patience.
Hermione didn't see the slap coming, but she certainly felt it. Hard enough to unbalance her, to send her reeling backwards and knock her head on the other bedpost, to make her gasp and bruise.
He had likely been holding back, or she would have a concussion. Nevertheless, it was hard, and once she'd recovered herself, she stared angrily into his pale, guiltless face.
"I rather suggest you don't force me to do that again, Miss Granger," he said.
Hermione glared at him. He looked completely unperturbed. Anger managed to oust most other emotions, which was, of course, his motive and realizing this did nothing to improve her state. Well, what were women supposed to do when they were slapped? Parvati and Lavender had watched enough soap operas for her to pick up a bit of canon. There was no handy bottles of champagne to toss in his face, so she settled for hitting him back. She struck, although not as hard as she could have. If she had truly meant to hurt him she would have turned the nails inward, a very successful tactic. No, slaps were more emotional than intended to do actual damage.
Half of her expected him to move in a blur, catching her hand and holding her immobile. But he didn't. He simply took the blow and he didn't look as if it had hurt him. At all. It brought to mind images of sci-fi movies of her youth, of aliens and robots so strong they didn't even need to bother defending themselves.
She sat for a moment in silence, trying to force her muscles to relax, her breathing to slow. What had happened to spitting, screaming, furious Snape? The cold, sneering sarcasm was still there, but the pettiness was gone and so was the temper. Calm, composed, and oh so casually cruel--even if Vampire-Snape had still been human, he would have been frightening. But what made it worse was a touch of humanity that she didn't remember Non-Vampire-Snape possessing.
"Alright," she said finally--Snape was leaning casually against the wall, and looked prepared to watch her in silence all night. "Well-rested or not, we're in a lot of trouble."
Composure faltered, and the pale face was etched with worry, making him look older. "Yes...I had no idea the roots of this went so deep...I've been warning the Headmaster for some time now--he's one of the few people who know I'm still...around...but I could only track individuals. They've recruited new members, undoubtedly."
She didn't want to say it. She didn't want to have thought of it. But it had been thought, and it had to be said. "So Voldemort is still alive...?"
He sneered. "Your faith in Potter--successful Quidditch player, I've heard, how charming--is really quite deep-rooted, isn't it?"
"Yes," she whispered, suddenly feeling stupid.
Sneers were really quite disturbing when they revealed fangs. "Oh how I haven't missed that Gryffindor capacity for drama. Yes, he's around. Weakened, to be sure, but so was Stalin, and he lasted for quite a while."
"Oh." Numb was better than crying, but not by much. "Actually, would it be a good idea to call him anyway? Harry, I mean. We haven't spoken for a while but I know he feels somewhat...er...responsible for Voldemort, and he might...help."
Snape shrugged. "If you like."
If Harry didn't bother him, then Vampire-Snape had definitely risen above what he had been as a teacher. He saw her awed expression."Oh, I still despise the boy," he added nonchalantly. "For many reasons, not all of them unbased. But, as you so mechanistically put it, he may help."
"Oh. Ok..."
"However, I rather suspect that quite a lot of this will fall on your shoulders, Miss Granger."
She looked at him, eyes widening abruptly. "Me?"
He shrugged. "Just a guess, but it seems likely." He sighed. "I'll let you know if there are any new developments that need your presence, which may very well come to pass. For now, keep on with what you're doing, and remember that Aurors are soldiers. They know, or will remember, quickly enough, what they've been trained for."
Hermione decided to place that little scrap of information in the "deal with this later" category. *Go to work. Do your job, whatever that is these days. *
*Don't think about yesterday and don't think about tomorrow.*
*There's a vampire in your bedroom who you still haven't told anybody about because for some reason you seem to trust him.*
He watched her for a moment and was, apparently, satisfied that she had recovered enough.
"It would be rather nice if we never saw one another again," he said in that perfect blend between humor and cruelty that always left her off balance. "But, alas, circumstances seem to foresee otherwise. Be careful. Oh, and get a better lock."
And he left.
Hermione stared stupidly after him for a while, then padded to the bathroom and splashed water on her face. She really was pale and sick, she realized, and the drugged sleep had done little more than make her feel tired.
She thought longingly of sleep, of waking up to find everything taken care of. Of a leisurely breakfast of cocoa and croissants and a few days break from paperwork and panic.
No. You have a job to do.
Don't worry, Granger. You can sleep when you're dead.