A new chapter! Finally, I've returned! Hopefully the muse will remain! Feedback=always welcome. Insert the usual disclaimer here.
8.
The water poured over a muscular, icy pale body. The shoulder stung slightly as the intense heat hit it--it would, he guessed, be a few more days before it was completely healed. Unlucky timing.
He dabbed at it carefully with a washcloth Hermione had kindly provided, and a steady stream of brown-tinted water flowed down his chest and ran snakelike across the bottom of the bathtub. Clean, the wound was much less deep than it had been, but still raw and ugly. No veins had been severed, for which he was grateful, but its placement was such that it interfered with the arm's movement. Even after the flesh had healed, it would be stiff and sore.
The soap in the soap dish was bright pink and smelled dreadfully feminine. He used the small bar of scentless white hand soap by the sink, the same he had used to dab the blood out of the shoulder of his shirt. Hermione had taken the coat.
He took a deep, unnecessary breath, and simply succumbed to the warm water. Hermione's flat was unquestionably hideous, built sometime in 1930 and then refurbished in the 80s, and bearing the worst qualities of both. But at least it functioned well.
The water was coppery and the show slightly moldy; although Hermione undoubtedly did her best, not a lot missed the extraordinary senses of a vampire. Despite that, it was wonderfully pleasant. He couldn't remember the last time he had lingered in the shower. One must indulge in luxury when one can, he thought, and with a trace of guilt succumbed to the warmth.
How long had this been his body? 8 years? Ten? It was still unfamiliar, when he thought about it. He had been pale before, and quite lean, but now he was almost white, and rail-thin. He had spent nearly a year adjusting to his un-life before he could be relied on not to wrench doors off their hinges when trying to open them.
He remembered that, now, understanding if not appreciating the humor. The pale, dignified vampire unable to accomplish the smallest chore because he kept breaking things. It had been hell at the time, of course; there were fist sized holes in his walls still--the results of poorly vented frustration. He had been forever mending quills, unable to write more than a page before he got distracted and snapped them. There had been no sire, no master vampire to help him discover life again. Simply a man whose world had, until then, been pleasantly routine, jolted suddenly into an unfamiliar life, an unfamiliar body, slowly and painfully figuring the small, miserable details, like how to not break pens. SPF 70 sunblock.
Which, he realized with a start, he had washed off in the shower. Growling with impatience and frustration, he climbed out of the shower, hoping Hermione could provide him with some.
The shirt was slightly damp, but he dressed anyway, smoothing wet hair back so that he looked far more the dangerous creature of the night than he felt.
Hermione was just finishing a can of condensed soup as he emerged, and answering another owl note, saying that, yes, she was indeed very shaken and should probably rest for a while, and hoped they could keep going.
She nodded at him. "Your coat should be dry in another ten minutes and I think I've bought some time with the Ministry. Want to tell me exactly what's going on?"
"I may be much stronger than the Snape you knew at a school, but I am, alas, no more omnipotent," he said. "I know little more than you do, and much of my knowledge is probably too old to be useful. Whatever knowledge you posses that you are unaware of is probably our best bet."
"So what do we do?"
"Go back to my flat, for a start. Hopefully, the Ministry will assume you're sleeping if you don't answer any letters."
"And then...?"
"I'll explain later."
This was getting irritating. "If at some point you feel like giving me a straight answer, I'll be happy to listen to you. You just sort of sidle into all of this and I have no idea what's going on! I think I'm going crazy. Well, between you and Draco, its no surprise! You hit me, and I still have a bruise--see? You're a vampire, and I trust you. Why?" *Ok, Granger, you're starting to sound childish.*
He raised an eyebrow. "Because I obviously trust you. And, perhaps because Gryffindor or not, you tend towards a remarkable capability for thinking. And you're the only one with the information we need and I'm probably the only one who can retrieve it."
Hermione absorbed this. "I see."
"I am sorry I hit you, if it helps," he added, so carefully nonchalant that she realized it was a difficult thing for him to say.
"Its all right." She sighed. " I suppose they will manage without me."
"Magnificent Monsieur Potter will carry on, I'm sure."
"Remind me to ask you why you dislike him so much," Hermione murmured, but with a rueful smile. "Not that I can't guess."
He grinned wryly and Hermione bit her lip. The teeth that had once been yellowed and crooked were perfectly straight and very, very white. And a great deal sharper than she remembered.
He laughed; not cruel, or cold, but warm and incredibly human. "Disconcerting, is it? I've never really been able to see for myself."
"Ah. Right. You don't..."
"Have a reflection. No. Crosses, running water, no problem. Holy water, problem. Garlic, severe nausea and skin irritation. And sunlight...yes, by the way, would you possess any sunscreen? I believe we should get going."
Oddly, the volunteered information was making her feel better.
Hermione found him a bottle of sunscreen and fetched the now clean and dry and chemical-smelling trench coat from the dryer. She tied her hair back firmly and tried to decide what she needed to take. She herself was wearing worn, tight-fitting jeans and a long suede jacket that seemed strangely flattering.
Eventually, she packed a shoulder bag with both muggle and wizard money and a few emergency charms and tricks, as well as a few snacks. Snape's house had been decidedly lacking in food.
*Well, except for you,* she thought to herself, and tried not to shudder at the thought.
Hermione sighed. "I may never see this apartment again."
He looked at her. "I hope that I as well may be so lucky," he said, impatient to leave, and Hermione laughed.
It was a long walk back to Snape's flat, and an awkward one. He was trying, she could tell, to go slower, for her sake. She watched him, trying to overcome her fear of him, at least part of which had nothing to do with vampires at all and was simply rooted in the fact that he had been a cruel and miserable man at Hogwarts and her childhood terror was a hard one to shake.
She fell behind, eventually, and watched his back, trying to compare the twin images of Snape living and dead. Still snarky and sarcastic and cruel and yet, somehow, basically -good.- Still brilliant. Handsome now, though, and pale and graceful, with that edge of danger he'd always had somehow refined-less vicious now, more dashing.
*Dashing? Handsome? Oh no, Granger. You're -not- going to start that.*
He felt her presence behind him, even as he did not see her. He could smell her, anyway-exhaustion, and fear, and -female- and it unnerved him. Her presence brought out long dormant emotion; mainly pity. Her bruises and her bloodshot eyes and the fact that a long walk that was nothing to him was going to exhaust her bothered him, and it shouldn't have. He was a monster, beyond such things.
But maybe that was just because he hadn't had any long-term contact with people really since he'd been Turned. Part of him saw her as female and longed for her. Part of him saw her as human-and hungered. Mostly, of course, he realized that he was twenty years her senior, and that she trusted him; and more importantly that she held the only clue they had to preventing another war, and liberties of any sort were not to be taken. A small part of him, however, was aware that despite the fact that her was a monster, and, additionally was not being and had never been anything but cruel to her, she was being nice to him. It was a disconcerting thought.
So he simply walked, pushing such things from his mind and concentrating on what books he was going to need and where they were, and if he had all the potions supplies this was going to require and thought that he probably did, and, if he didn't, he was just going to improvise because shopping was not really a good idea right now.
His shoulder was tingling, like a foot fallen asleep, which meant that healing was almost complete.
8.
The water poured over a muscular, icy pale body. The shoulder stung slightly as the intense heat hit it--it would, he guessed, be a few more days before it was completely healed. Unlucky timing.
He dabbed at it carefully with a washcloth Hermione had kindly provided, and a steady stream of brown-tinted water flowed down his chest and ran snakelike across the bottom of the bathtub. Clean, the wound was much less deep than it had been, but still raw and ugly. No veins had been severed, for which he was grateful, but its placement was such that it interfered with the arm's movement. Even after the flesh had healed, it would be stiff and sore.
The soap in the soap dish was bright pink and smelled dreadfully feminine. He used the small bar of scentless white hand soap by the sink, the same he had used to dab the blood out of the shoulder of his shirt. Hermione had taken the coat.
He took a deep, unnecessary breath, and simply succumbed to the warm water. Hermione's flat was unquestionably hideous, built sometime in 1930 and then refurbished in the 80s, and bearing the worst qualities of both. But at least it functioned well.
The water was coppery and the show slightly moldy; although Hermione undoubtedly did her best, not a lot missed the extraordinary senses of a vampire. Despite that, it was wonderfully pleasant. He couldn't remember the last time he had lingered in the shower. One must indulge in luxury when one can, he thought, and with a trace of guilt succumbed to the warmth.
How long had this been his body? 8 years? Ten? It was still unfamiliar, when he thought about it. He had been pale before, and quite lean, but now he was almost white, and rail-thin. He had spent nearly a year adjusting to his un-life before he could be relied on not to wrench doors off their hinges when trying to open them.
He remembered that, now, understanding if not appreciating the humor. The pale, dignified vampire unable to accomplish the smallest chore because he kept breaking things. It had been hell at the time, of course; there were fist sized holes in his walls still--the results of poorly vented frustration. He had been forever mending quills, unable to write more than a page before he got distracted and snapped them. There had been no sire, no master vampire to help him discover life again. Simply a man whose world had, until then, been pleasantly routine, jolted suddenly into an unfamiliar life, an unfamiliar body, slowly and painfully figuring the small, miserable details, like how to not break pens. SPF 70 sunblock.
Which, he realized with a start, he had washed off in the shower. Growling with impatience and frustration, he climbed out of the shower, hoping Hermione could provide him with some.
The shirt was slightly damp, but he dressed anyway, smoothing wet hair back so that he looked far more the dangerous creature of the night than he felt.
Hermione was just finishing a can of condensed soup as he emerged, and answering another owl note, saying that, yes, she was indeed very shaken and should probably rest for a while, and hoped they could keep going.
She nodded at him. "Your coat should be dry in another ten minutes and I think I've bought some time with the Ministry. Want to tell me exactly what's going on?"
"I may be much stronger than the Snape you knew at a school, but I am, alas, no more omnipotent," he said. "I know little more than you do, and much of my knowledge is probably too old to be useful. Whatever knowledge you posses that you are unaware of is probably our best bet."
"So what do we do?"
"Go back to my flat, for a start. Hopefully, the Ministry will assume you're sleeping if you don't answer any letters."
"And then...?"
"I'll explain later."
This was getting irritating. "If at some point you feel like giving me a straight answer, I'll be happy to listen to you. You just sort of sidle into all of this and I have no idea what's going on! I think I'm going crazy. Well, between you and Draco, its no surprise! You hit me, and I still have a bruise--see? You're a vampire, and I trust you. Why?" *Ok, Granger, you're starting to sound childish.*
He raised an eyebrow. "Because I obviously trust you. And, perhaps because Gryffindor or not, you tend towards a remarkable capability for thinking. And you're the only one with the information we need and I'm probably the only one who can retrieve it."
Hermione absorbed this. "I see."
"I am sorry I hit you, if it helps," he added, so carefully nonchalant that she realized it was a difficult thing for him to say.
"Its all right." She sighed. " I suppose they will manage without me."
"Magnificent Monsieur Potter will carry on, I'm sure."
"Remind me to ask you why you dislike him so much," Hermione murmured, but with a rueful smile. "Not that I can't guess."
He grinned wryly and Hermione bit her lip. The teeth that had once been yellowed and crooked were perfectly straight and very, very white. And a great deal sharper than she remembered.
He laughed; not cruel, or cold, but warm and incredibly human. "Disconcerting, is it? I've never really been able to see for myself."
"Ah. Right. You don't..."
"Have a reflection. No. Crosses, running water, no problem. Holy water, problem. Garlic, severe nausea and skin irritation. And sunlight...yes, by the way, would you possess any sunscreen? I believe we should get going."
Oddly, the volunteered information was making her feel better.
Hermione found him a bottle of sunscreen and fetched the now clean and dry and chemical-smelling trench coat from the dryer. She tied her hair back firmly and tried to decide what she needed to take. She herself was wearing worn, tight-fitting jeans and a long suede jacket that seemed strangely flattering.
Eventually, she packed a shoulder bag with both muggle and wizard money and a few emergency charms and tricks, as well as a few snacks. Snape's house had been decidedly lacking in food.
*Well, except for you,* she thought to herself, and tried not to shudder at the thought.
Hermione sighed. "I may never see this apartment again."
He looked at her. "I hope that I as well may be so lucky," he said, impatient to leave, and Hermione laughed.
It was a long walk back to Snape's flat, and an awkward one. He was trying, she could tell, to go slower, for her sake. She watched him, trying to overcome her fear of him, at least part of which had nothing to do with vampires at all and was simply rooted in the fact that he had been a cruel and miserable man at Hogwarts and her childhood terror was a hard one to shake.
She fell behind, eventually, and watched his back, trying to compare the twin images of Snape living and dead. Still snarky and sarcastic and cruel and yet, somehow, basically -good.- Still brilliant. Handsome now, though, and pale and graceful, with that edge of danger he'd always had somehow refined-less vicious now, more dashing.
*Dashing? Handsome? Oh no, Granger. You're -not- going to start that.*
He felt her presence behind him, even as he did not see her. He could smell her, anyway-exhaustion, and fear, and -female- and it unnerved him. Her presence brought out long dormant emotion; mainly pity. Her bruises and her bloodshot eyes and the fact that a long walk that was nothing to him was going to exhaust her bothered him, and it shouldn't have. He was a monster, beyond such things.
But maybe that was just because he hadn't had any long-term contact with people really since he'd been Turned. Part of him saw her as female and longed for her. Part of him saw her as human-and hungered. Mostly, of course, he realized that he was twenty years her senior, and that she trusted him; and more importantly that she held the only clue they had to preventing another war, and liberties of any sort were not to be taken. A small part of him, however, was aware that despite the fact that her was a monster, and, additionally was not being and had never been anything but cruel to her, she was being nice to him. It was a disconcerting thought.
So he simply walked, pushing such things from his mind and concentrating on what books he was going to need and where they were, and if he had all the potions supplies this was going to require and thought that he probably did, and, if he didn't, he was just going to improvise because shopping was not really a good idea right now.
His shoulder was tingling, like a foot fallen asleep, which meant that healing was almost complete.