An Exchange
Hermione didn't know quite what to expect after a wrinkled house elf with very large lips and gray hair sticking out of his ears showed up at her door, telling her that Professor Snape wanted to see her in his chambers, and right away. Gritting her teeth, she frantically ran her fingers through her out of control hair, pulled down her nightgown under her dressing gown, and followed the elf, whose name she had learned was Rolphy, out of the door and began to follow him down the hall.
"Dead girl walkin'," an overweight wizard with several missing teeth said from a portrait as she passed. Every other painting was quiet, even the twin serpents over the bathroom across the hall didn't hiss as they walked by.
"Um…excuse me," she said before they entered the landing on top of the stairs of the entry hall. The elf kept walking, entranced in his own little world. "Excuse me? Rolphy?"
He finally stopped and turned around, ever so slowly, and Hermione suddenly felt like she knew this house elf from somewhere. It was then that it struck her - no matter how odd it seemed - that if Rolphy was human, he would bare a striking resemblance to Mr. Ollivander.
"What exactly…" Hermione began, pausing to clear her throat. "What exactly does he want to see me for?"
Rolphy just looked at her, unblinking, as if he was just processing what she had said, weighing it slowly in his ears. "Oh," he finally said, as if he had now only understood her question. "Rolphy doesn't know."
"Of course he doesn't," she said with a roll of her eyes as they skipped the stairs completely and rounded the landing to the opposite door, directly above the one that Hermione had intruded through days (it seemed like years) earlier.
The trek seemed to lengthen immediately, heading a different direction than the way that Hermione had traveled before. The hall seemed to continue and wind and turn infinitely; the walls had become bare what seemed like miles back, and in some places she could see dull gray light or the flutter of shadows through gaps in the stone. When they had gone so far that Hermione could hardly bear it anymore and was ready to collapse on the floor and nurse her bare, sore feet, they halted abruptly.
The end of the hallway had come about suddenly, almost as if it had come out of nowhere. Either it had or Hermione had become so entranced with the patter of four feet across carpet and stone that she hadn't noticed that they had approached the end until it was right in front of them, though she seriously doubted the latter.
And of all the portraits, statues, or paintings that she had infrequently imagined guarded Severus Snape's private quarters, she was still surprised by his choice. His carefully chosen guard was, indeed, a portrait of himself.
"Professor Snape?" she questioned as the elf pushed her toward the glowering figure. She had often thought that painters were paid to soften harsh features and accentuate the most striking and pleasant. This artist hadn't done a very good job. His nose was comically exaggerated and overshadowed a thin, overly-small mouth, while his eyes, lacking the brilliance that they so often harbored, stared steadily out from beneath lowered brows. His voice was still the same, however, and, unfortunately, so was his personality.
"No," Snape said, sounding incredibly bored. "I'm not Professor Snape. I believe you are in the wrong wing of the manor. You will have to make the agonizing journey back to the entrance hall and take a tumble down the stairs, then you will see him. Though I can't promise that he'd take care to help you after your little fall."
"Look," Hermione replied, her patience running thin on little sleep and the hunger gnawing away at the pit of her stomach. "It was not my choice to come here. If I don't get to see him…you, I will blame it on you…him, and I don't think that he'd…you'd be very happy about that."
The portrait Snape rolled his eyes but unlatched himself from the wall. It creaked open a bit, beckoning Hermione to come closer with soft, glowing candlelight, stirred in with the gray sunlight of dawn, sneaking through the crack.
"Don't touch anything unless you plan on paying for it," he called after her, slamming shut and trapping her inside. There appeared to be no handle on the other side of Snape's portrait. She was stuck inside until Snape showed up, or until she found another exit.
She was in a cozy study, with a meager and disappointing supply of books placed in a rather disorderly fashion in two mismatched bookshelves against the wall. Dusty armchairs, that looked like they were rarely sat in and most likely infested with spiders, were huddled around a cold fireplace in the opposite corner, and a roll-top desk scattered with various papers sat nearby, looking to be the most used object in the room. She was rather surprised by the room's condition; she had always pictured Snape as a clean freak: his potion supplies were always in order, his students' essays marked (however unfairly) the class following their due date, the neat, tidy appearance (besides his hair). Either he wasn't truly as clean as she had thought, or he had ordered the house elves not to touch anything in this room. Of course, that was also highly likely, depending on what sort of papers were scattered around. She was also quite certain that the portrait of Snape meant what he had said about not touching anything…she was sure that she would pay, but not in any currency that she knew of.
There was only one other doorway, hiding in the shadows near the bookshelves, made of scarred and knotted wood that looked as though you would be speared by a sliver as soon as you touched it. The knocker, looking as though it was made of iron, was rusted and Hermione doubted that it would even budge. But it did, and its rapping against the door was solemn and hollow.
The door swung inward on the second impact, revealing a somewhat red-faced, befuddled Professor Snape. He was wearing a gray nightshirt that landed just at his knees, revealing pale skin riddled with dark, coarse hair, stretching down to large, knobby feet that Hermione couldn't help but think were quite ugly. She wondered vaguely why he hadn't taken the time to shrug on a dressing gown.
"What took you so long?" he growled as he moved aside to allow her entrance to a rather comfortable looking bedroom with plush bedding and carpet. Sheets of dark green velvet and cotton were wrapped and twisted in an unmade mess on a humungous sleigh bed; the bed was actually a pleasant surprise - she had been expecting a four-poster. Though now that she thought about it, this made more sense; he was a quite paranoid man, and probably wouldn't be able to sleep with curtains hiding his view of possible intruders, dreamed, imaginary, or real.
Unlit candles hung from a crystal chandelier in the center of the ceiling, and cold but somehow cheerful sunlight poured through the windows. The room didn't seem like it would be a very affective place in which to brood.
"I followed the elf," she answered with an uneasy shrug. "It took forever. I was half-expecting to run into David Bowie."
He just looked angry and confused, so Hermione decided to cover her tracks and babble on. Her hand found the corner of a desk and she leaned on it for support.
"So what exactly did you want to see me for, Professor?"
"Don't pretend that you do not know," he demanded, latching his hands together behind his back and fixing her with a penetrating stare.
"Sorry, sir, but I don't."
"I'm not stupid, Granger, and neither are you." Goodness, that sounded fairly similar to a compliment. "I am quite aware of your intentions to marry me off."
Hermione's heart suddenly plummeted into her stomach. "What?"
"You heard me."
"N-no," she stuttered with a shake of her frizzy curls. "I would never…I was just curious…"
"I know very well that you were not curious about this certain subject. You were very close, I believe, to patronizing me entirely. I do not tolerate being patronized. Nor do I enjoy people meddling in my love life, whether I have one or not."
"But-"
"Shut up and let me finish." He began to pace from side to side, eyes wandering across the floor. "I believe that you know of my…condition. Am I right in also guessing that it is your fault that I was recently molested by one of my very own house elves?"
He had been expecting an answer from her, a simple "yes" or a "no" of denial, maybe even an explanation, but he had not expected to hear a surprised laugh escape her lips. His eyes narrowed dangerously.
Hermione had started laughing, and she could not stop. Her laughter, when warranted, was difficult to contain, even though now would be a very, very good time to stop laughing.
He glared at her, impatiently waiting for her to stop. She finally was able to calm herself, her cheeks pink, and with an embarrassing snort, she became silent.
"Are you finished?" he asked, lips pursed irritably.
She tried to hold back a misplaced smile. "Yes."
"So answer me." He stopped pacing, straightening himself to his full, towering height, his right hand placed lightly on the foot of his bed. "You know, don't you? And don't try to act innocent, it's not going to work."
She signed and slumped against the wall, bringing a palm to her forehead. "Fine, yes, I know."
There was a moment of intense silence before Snape exhaled softly, breathing out a large gust of air through his hooked nose. The room no longer seemed very cheerful but instead it seemed to be growing smaller, and it started to feel very, very stuffy. Hermione pulled on the belt of her dressing gown, feeling her face flush.
"Well," he said finally, causing Hermione's shoulders to sag in relief that he had broken the silence at last. She thought that the lack of sound might reach out and strangle her. "What do you think this warranties? The cancellation of the rest of our studies would be appropriate, as well as reimbursing me for the Galleons I have spent on keeping you here. Of course, that would mean that you wouldn't receive your Potions N.E.W.T, but perhaps you could go to work in a…oh, I don't know, Starbucks?"
"Sir-"
"But," he interrupted, holding up a finger to silence her. "I believe that another course of action could replace it, since you seem so adamant on receiving your bloody N.E.W.T."
Hermione chewed on her lip, wondering what this alternate "course of action" could be. Maybe he would tie her to a tree and let Beatrice loose with various objects to throw at her. Though dripping poison into her food and dumping her lifeless body somewhere in the woods seemed a lot more Snape-like. Of course…he made this sound like she would be alive to do it, and still receive her N.E.W.T, which didn't seem to fit together very well. She was making herself confused.
When she looked back up at him, his eyebrow was lifted and it looked as though he was trying with some difficulty, and failing, to hide a smirk. "Battling with yourself, Miss Granger?"
"I'm…I'm just wondering what you're planning to do with me, sir."
"Well," he began pacing again, his lank hair drooping down to hide his face from view except for the very corners of his down-turned eyes and the tip of his curved nose. His sallow skin was even whiter in the dim morning light, and the hairs on his legs gleamed in a mix of ebony and silver. "It's not exactly concerning what I'm doing with you, it's more…what you can do for me."
Oh Merlin, this was going to be worse than she thought.
"Um, what exactly did you have in mind?"
He screwed his face up, his eyes narrowed, like a baby about to burst into tears. But she knew Snape, and he wasn't one to start crying at random moments, if ever. This seemed like an expression - though she had never seen it twist his features before - that told he was about to say something that he truly, truly didn't want to say.
"I…want you to teach me," he muttered, so quietly that Hermione could barely hear him.
She heard him, all right, but that didn't stop her from asking if she had heard correctly. "What?"
"I want you to teach me," he growled. "How I should act…to attract a woman."
Hermione knew that Ron and Harry would eat house elf to be here right now, hearing Snape request her help for his love life. She also knew that if she didn't milk this for all it was worth, they would kill her.
"I believe," she answered with lifted eyebrows, a smirk pulling up the corner of her mouth. "That you have no trouble in that area."
"Beatrice is not what one would commonly call a 'woman', thank you," he replied wryly. "Don't make this harder for me than it already is. You mustn't forget that I hold the keys to your future right now, and I wouldn't recommend that you nip that hand. You never know when that hand may…shall we say…slip beyond the veil?"
She just swallowed.
"Very good, Miss Granger. Now, I think the exchange is fair. Lessons for lesson. We can hold these sessions after I hold mine…what do you think?"
"That…that sounds good," she stuttered, amazed at her luck and his openness to her opinions. What made him think that she would be a good teacher of the ways of women was a mystery to her. She had rarely even had female friends; Ginny was her only true girl friend throughout her time at Hogwarts. Had he not realized that her two best friends were male?
"You are dismissed then," he said with a wave of his hand. "You may take the other entrance, I'm afraid the one in the study doesn't open from the inside."
"Other entrance?"
He moved toward the wall opposite of the bed, tapping a plank on the wall with the tip of his wand three times. The wood wobbled slightly, as if it was made of water, and then gathered itself into two sections and split apart, revealing an open doorway that opened right into the entrance hall.
Impressed, Hermione moved toward the doorway, hugging her dressing gown around herself.
"Oh, and Professor," she said just before she stepped through the doorway. "The painter of your portrait didn't do a very good job portraying your likeness, I hope you didn't pay him very well."
He blinked slowly as she stepped through the doorway, chin tilted upward lightly.
"It's a self-portrait, Miss Granger."
Hermione turned around to stutter her apologies, but it was too late. The portal had already closed, leaving a stone wall in its wake. Face red with embarrassment, Hermione walked back to her rooms to begin her breakfast and plan for what, if anything, she could teach him about the world of a gender she barely even knew, herself.
A/N: In case anyone is wondering, I'm updating rather often because I feel guilty. I'm going to be leaving soon (and taking care of my mother, since she has recently had knee replacement surgery), and I'm probably not going to have any updates after next week until August. Bear with me, and I'll update as soon as I can, either when I get back from my holidays or in the five day stretch when I'm actually home. Thanks for your patience.
Thanks to: babydoll125, HunnySnowBunny (okay, thanks for reassuring me. The same thing happened to my English teacher, except he grew up in New Jersey...), artemisgirl, Audrey, MoonAssassin13, Snapegirl51606, Katrina Stardust (hopefully it will never be stuck in plot limbo. I think I might have the entire story figured out from here...), Kaaera, pickles87, blackdragonofdeath13, EvieBlack, SeasonGrrl, Kim, thekidwonderladymistress, MidnightPrincess, Satern Mya, Fou Fou (well, I don't know about Hermione...), Zvezdana, Lana Manckir, Cow as White as Milk, yeoldecrazy1 (sorry, he wears night shirts. I felt like making him canon), Blatant Discontent, and Joshua Glass.